


something in the air is giving me bad ideas

by cursingcursive (queenradi)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, fake dating au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4267653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenradi/pseuds/cursingcursive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras's sister is getting married and she hates the idea of him being alone, so naturally he needs to recruit one of his friends to be his date for the wedding. And naturally, the only friend available to do so is Grantaire. And, just as naturally, the family must believe they're madly in love for any of this to be convincing. </p><p>Enjolras doesn't remember being such a good actor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something in the air is giving me bad ideas

**Author's Note:**

> this is a birthday present for [marcie](http://cinderidiot.tumblr.com/)  
> title from the song "sidekick" by walk the moon - what I consider to be this fic's theme song :)  
> [my tumblr](http://triangleangel.tumblr.com/)  
> 

It’s raining when Enjolras leaves his office to meet his sister. Absolutely pissing down rain, as is the usual for April weather. He hates it. The sky feels too heavy and cloying above him, like the weight of the clouds is going to crush him. His Converse shoes are sopping wet and squelch with every step. The windbreaker he has is zipped all the way, hood pulled tight, and yet there is a steady drip of water down the back of his neck and the front of his t-shirt is wet. He’s shivering, too, because there’s a breeze and rainwater is not warm.

He should have taken a cab. Or taken Emmaline up on her offer to pick him up. Then he wouldn’t be trapped in this miserable downpour, suffering while waiting for the crosswalk to flash green.

Finally, it changes. A car comes to a splashing halt right before the painted line as Enjolras starts to cross. He resists glaring at the driver.

Once he crosses the street the cafe is only a block away. It’s one that he and Emmaline used to go to all the time when they were kids, waiting for when their mother would be home from work. They went until Enjolras turned thirteen and Emmaline turned ten, and then they just… stopped. They haven’t been back since.

Enjolras stops in the middle of the sidewalk. He can see it; the front patio’s umbrellas are all shut; water splashes and pools in the wrought iron of the tables and chairs, drips from the leaves of ivy crawling up the brick walls. Squares of golden light fall on the wet sidewalk. Inside he can see that it’s not very busy; it’s the middle of a Wednesday, right after the lunch rush. Not many people to offer their business.

Except for the couple in the back corner. A woman and a man, sharing one side of a booth. The man has dark hair and dark skin and a bright smile, eyes that light up when he laughs. The woman is making him laugh, talking animatedly with slender hands and loud facial expressions.

Enjolras can’t resist the smile that stretches over his mouth. Emmaline looks so happy, with Felix. He’d been so scared they weren’t right for each other, that something was bound to go wrong, but he can see now that Emmaline chose well.

He finally goes into the cafe. Emmaline looks up when he gets close. She stops talking and beams, ear to ear, blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Enj!” she squeals. She practically clambers over Felix before he has a chance to move out of her way. “Oh my God, Enj, it’s been so _long_!”

“I know, Em, I’m sorry—” He’s cut off when she throws her arms around his neck and squeezes. She smells like roses and coffee, and she’s warm and dry and Enjolras hasn’t seen her in almost a year — he’d missed his baby sister so much, and yet… he’d never…

He stops thinking and hugs her back. His eyes slip shut and he tucks his damp face into her dry shoulder, trying to ignore how wet and cold he is. It doesn’t matter right now.

Emmaline pulls away and holds him at arm’s distance. She looks him over, smiling, and says, “You’re so _skinny_. Are you eating?”

He shoves her playfully. “You sound like Mom,” he teases. “And yes, I am. I’m just busy with work, so—”

“Don’t give me that ‘I forget’ bullshit,” she chastises. “You don’t just forget to eat, Enjolras.”

He wants to argue, because it’s true, but he’s been Emmaline’s older brother for twenty four years now. He knows what fights to fight and which ones to leave alone.

“I’ll work on it,” he promises instead.

Emmaline grins again. “Good.” She turns and touches Felix’s shoulder. “You remember Felix,” she says, “and you also remember liking him, hm?”

“Of course.” Enjolras shakes his hand. “Your taste certainly has improved since college.”

The couple laughs, Emmaline pushing Enjolras down into the booth. “I should hope so, because…” She sits next to Enjolras and takes his right hand in her left. Her hand is so small compared to his, and he can’t help looking at their bone structures, the spider-webs of her blue veins, the slenderness of her fingers—

He freezes. The cafe seems to disappear around him. There, on Emmaline’s fourth finger, is a ring. A ring with a diamond. A ring with a diamond that could really be only one thing.

“Are you—” He looks to Felix, who’s a mix between smug and worried and excited and terrified. “What—” He looks to Emmaline, who’s smiling nervously and—

Oh God, she’s _crying_.

“Emma,” Enjolras says slowly.

She squeezes his hand. “He proposed last week,” she whispers. A tear falls down her cheek. Enjolras hopes it’s a happy one as he reaches to wipe it away, for her.

“I’m so happy for you,” he chokes out. He glances to Felix, who might be crying, too. They’re a bunch of saps, really. “I really am.” He touches Emmaline’s hair. She laughs wetly.

“Good.” She squeezes his hand again. “Because you’re walking me down the aisle.”

Enjolras’s heart aches. It’s a dull pulse in his chest, a painful throb that echoes in his joints. His throat closes up and he can’t think of anything to say, except, “Of course.”

Emmaline keeps smiling and they both keep crying and when she hugs him, Enjolras realizes that this cafe, the one that created their childhood, has now created Emmaline and Felix’s future. It’s not his, anymore. It’s theirs.

And, unlike so many other things, Enjolras is willing to give it up.

 

+

 

She spends a good fifteen minutes just talking about what she wants for the wedding; descriptions of color schemes and flowers and patterns and locations that Enjolras can’t keep track of. The words blur together and the only thing that sticks out to him is that she wants it to be in June. Two months away.

“So I was hoping that you’d be willing to help us plan,” she says. Her smile is blinding. He can’t resist.

“Obviously.”

Felix laughs. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he says.

“I’m fully aware.”

Emmaline rolls her eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.” She shares a sidelong glance with Felix. Enjolra gets the distinct impression that they’re having a conversation. He learns that he was right when Emmaline suddenly gets very serious.

“I was wondering,” she says. Enjolras knows that voice. It’s similar to the voice their mother used when she wanted something from them and was going to get it no matter what.

“Yeah?” he asks, as nonchalantly as possible. There are only so many things Emmaline could want from him.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve heard about you having a boyfriend.” She’s speaking carefully. Enjolras has no idea where she’s going with this. “And I just wanted to make sure that, you know, you haven’t…” Her mouth twists up and she looks down. She’s trying to find the right words.

Enjolras eyes her warily. “What? Been alone?”

She doesn’t say anything. Felix looks out the window. The pity is rolling off of them in waves. His stomach heaves and he wants to leave the cafe.

He swallows down the shame and the panic. “I haven’t,” he says suddenly.

Emmaline brightens up so quickly that it physically pains him. “Really?” she says. “That’s wonderful, Enj, I was so worried about you, you know how you get when you’re in your own head with no one to pull you out.” She takes his hands, still smiling. “I want to meet him.”

Enjolras’s blood runs cold. The one time he doesn’t think before he speaks, and this is what he gets. “R-really?” he chokes out.

“Of course! I have to make sure he’s good for my brother, don’t I?”

He smiles shakily and hopes that the euphoria of her own engagement is enough to keep her from noticing. “I’ll let him know.”

She squeals in excitement. He’s so fucked.

 

+

 

It’s not raining when Enjolras goes to the Musain. It’s also starting to get dark, the sky melting into a swirl of orange and dark blue and purple, spires of the city poking up and standing stark against the horizon.

The Musain isn’t busy. He finds everyone easily, all squished into the corner booth and a couple surrounding tables. Enjolras sits between Cosette and Courfeyrac, steals Combeferre’s drink; all of them are wrapped up in a story that Eponine and Bossuet are telling, something about a dog escaping from the shelter and a drunk animal control officer chasing after it. They’ve all heard the story before, but it changes every time, so everyone listens like they’ve never borne witness to such a thing.

The story ends like it always does; the dog safely back in the cage, the officer passed out in a broom closet, and Eponine apparently lying to their boss about the nature of the empty whiskey bottles.

Everyone notices that Enjolras has joined them and Cosette asks excitedly, “How’s Emmaline?”

A smile takes over his face right away. “Well, she and Felix are engaged,” he says.

Everyone cheers. It makes him smile even more, the fondness for his friends overflowing and spilling out between his teeth and his parted lips. Emmaline is like the shared little sister, the family member they don’t see very much but all love to pieces.

“When’s the wedding?” Eponine asks.

“Em wants it to be in June,” he says.

“That’s so soon!”

“She wants me to help plan, and it’s going to be relatively small, anyway.”

“We’re all invited, right?” Joly asks. “I’ve got this awesome space tie I’ve been meaning to wear, this’ll be the perfect occasion. It’s got galaxies on it.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you’re all invited.” He takes another sip of Combeferre’s drink before handing it back. “I’m walking her down the aisle,” he says casually.

The whole table goes quiet. They all look at him with varying degrees of pity and sadness and he hates it. Cosette touches his shoulder gently but he moves away from her. “What?” he says, defensive.

“Nothing.” Combeferre shrugs and looks away. “You’re a good brother, Enj. She’s lucky to have you.”

The fondness is drying up in his chest like earth in the sun. If he tried to smile, now, it’d crack and he’d fall apart. He doesn’t need the reminder that he shouldn’t be the one to do that for his sister. He doesn’t need all of his friends to treat this occasion like it’s something to be sad about.

Thankfully, Combeferre picks up on this. He slides his drink back to Enjolras and the conversation back to the group at large. “There’s a meeting at city hall in a week to discuss the new education reforms, and I think it’d be a good idea to get some PTAs from schools to go, you know?”

Everyone spirals off with him. Enjolras tries to get into the conversation, tries to dig up the passion he normally holds, but his mind keeps slipping back to Emmaline. He keeps swallowing smiles and refocusing his eyes on whomever is speaking.

He feels Cosette elbow him. When he looks at her, she’s smiling. “You look distracted,” she teases. “Getting all excited about helping your baby sister pick flowers and find a dress and choose color schemes?”

Enjolras groans. “I was excited,” he sighs, “but now that I think about it, it just sounds stressful.”

“Oh please, you’ve planned charity events and rallies in two days, I think you can assist in pulling together a wedding.” She pours some of her Shirley Temple into an empty glass and gives it to him.

He takes it and sips thoughtfully. “I just didn’t realize that it involved so much. There are so many things that could go wrong, you know?”

Cosette laughs lightly. “Imagine what it’s like for her.”

He makes a face. “Poor Felix,” he mutters.

She laughs again, louder. “He’ll be alright. Obviously she picked a good guy, if you’re not jumping down his throat and complaining about him.”

“You have a point.” He takes another sip of the Shirley Temple, then swallows some of Combeferre’s drink. He now realizes that it’s whiskey. While the burn slides down his throat, he suddenly remembers something. “Shit!” He coughs a little.

Cosette flashes him a worried look. “What?”

Enjolras coughs again. His face is heating up. “I, uh. It’s stupid, but.” He laughs nervously and makes sure no one else is listening in. Cosette is the only person in this entire group that won’t make him feel like a complete ass for this. “I may have given Emmaline that impression that I have a boyfriend to bring to the wedding.”

Cosette tilts her head sideways, bemused. “Do you?”

He bites his lip and looks away. “No.”

“Oh no.” Cosette closes her eyes. She’s biting her lip too, really hard, and Enjolras knows when someone is trying not to laugh. This is one of those times. “Enj, you didn’t.”

He groans and drops his head to the table.

“Oh my God.” Cosette smacks a hand over her mouth in time to stifle the giggle that spills out. “Wow. Wow, good job, darling.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and turns away from her. He swipes Courfeyrac’s drink, finds it’s empty, and goes for Jehan’s instead. Jehan doesn’t notice, too busy talking, so Enjolras finishes it. “What do I do?” He doesn’t want to look at Cosette. She’ll be all smug.

She stops laughing long enough to straighten her back and say primly, “You’ll have to find a boyfriend. It’s the only way.”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye. “And how do you propose I do that?”

The grin melts onto her face like syrup, sticky and sweet and worrying. Okay, syrup isn’t worrying, but it’s messy, and that’s what this smile will result in: a mess, that Enjolras will have to clean up. “Oh, honey,” she sighs. Her arm falls gracefully over his shoulders, tucks him into her side. “If you think I’m going to let you do this on your own, you’re very mistaken.”

“What are you—”

She’s waving at Eponine before Enjolras has time to figure what the hell she plans on doing. Eponine climbs over Courfeyrac and settles in between him and Enjolras.

“What’s up?” she asks Cosette.

“Hang on.” Cosette taps on Marius’s shoulder, and because the guy is practically hardwired to know when Cosette wants his attention, he whips around so fast Enjolras worries he’ll hurt himself.

“Yeah?” His eyes are wide and eager. It’s a little sickening.

“Poor Enjolras here needs our help,” Cosette says grimly. She tightens her arm around him. He looks around to make sure no one else heard her. It doesn’t seem like they did. He still blushes furiously.

“With what?” Eponine asks.

“Oh God,” he groans.

Cosette is smirking. She’s too sweet for this, why is she putting him through this hell? “He needs a boyfriend to bring to Emmaline’s wedding,” she explains.

Marius makes the same face a puppy does when it’s confused. “Why does he need a boyfriend?”

“Because this smooth-talker told Emmaline he had one.” She looks so smug. He hates her.

“Guys, this isn’t—”

Eponine cuts him off. “Well I think we can manage that.” She starts looking around the Musain, like an eligible bachelor is just going to appear and make himself known. “What do you propose?”

Cosette lets go of him and he seizes the opportunity to melt into his seat. “Well I don’t think we’ll have enough time to start him off in a real relationship,” she muses.

“He could get a fake boyfriend?” Marius suggests.

Enjolras groans loudly. “Really, Pontmercy, where do you think I’m going to find someone willing to—”

“Shut up,” Eponine says. She flicks him on the nose. His snaps his mouth shut, more out of surprise than anything. “Marius is right, a fake boyfriend might be your only option.”

He’s really, _really_ glad that no one is listening. This is getting weird, even by Enjolras’s standards. “Okay, suppose that could work,” he says, sitting up. “But how am I going to—”

He’s interrupted _again_. “I know!” Cosette squeals. “One of them!” She gestures to the group at large. Only Jehan looks over, but he looks away again just as quickly to listen to something Joly is saying.

Enjolras stares at her. “Are—are you _serious_?” He watches, stunned, as Bossuet throws a peanut into Courfeyrac’s mouth. Joly has a straw in his nose. Combeferre is making a diagram with salt and pepper shakers and sugar packets.

Marius nods. “It makes sense. You know all of us, we know you, add in a few kisses, some hand holding—”

“Pet names,” Eponine offers.

“Heart eyes,” Cosette adds.

“—and you’ve got yourself a fake relationship!” Marius beams proudly. “Good thinking, Cosette.”

“That would never work,” Enjolras says.

“Why not?” Marius looks offended, probably on Cosette’s behalf, the lovestruck idiot.

Enjolras points an accusing finger at him. “You can’t act like you’re attracted to men, because you’re too busy fawning over the burst of light in Cosette’s eyes or whatever, let alone act like you’re in love with me, to save your life.” He points at Courfeyrac and then Combeferre. “Emmaline has known about their star-crossed-lover thing ever since she met them, and she’s right. They’re inseparable.” He points to Bossuet. “If you think that’s going to even begin to work, you’re insane.” Then Joly. “I have known him _way_ too long to even _think_ about kissing him.” Lastly, Jehan. “He’s everyone’s little brother, including Emmaline’s. She would skin me alive, wedding or no wedding.” He looks back at Marius. “That’s why not.”

The other three are quiet. Marius mumbles something about giving away his secret crush, but Cosette doesn’t even look surprised. Literally everyone knows.

Enjolras starts climbing out of the booth. Cosette lets him go. “Look, I appreciate you guys trying to help me out here, but it just won’t work.” He turns back and meets their eyes. They look a little put out. “I’ll just tell her the truth.” _And let her worry about me being alone so much that she’ll use her wedding as an excuse to try and hook me up with someone,_ he thinks to himself. Rather bitterly, he notices.

He starts to turn away when Marius yells, “You forgot someone!”

He freezes. “No, I—” His heart does a stupid skipping thing when he realizes who Marius is talking about. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Marius, _no_ —”

He scrambles up and grabs Enjolras by the shoulders. “Come on! Just think about it, okay?” he pleads. Enjolras looks away. “It’ll only be for a couple of months.”

“Emmaline’s only met him a couple of times,” Cosette adds, trying to help. “So she won’t wonder why you’re suddenly dating.”

Enjolras glares at her. She doesn’t back down. Neither does Marius. “Just think about it?” he implores.

“I said—”

“You wanted our help, here’s our help.” Eponine gives him a stern look.

“I didn’t want your help,” Enjolras says halfheartedly. He looks at Marius’s puppy-dog eyes again.

A couple months can’t be that bad, can they? For the sake of Emmaline?

Marius says “Come on,” one more time, quietly.

Enjolras bites his lip. “I’ll think about it,” he concedes. Marius starts to grin, but then Enjolras says cuttingly, “But _don’t_ expect me to go through with it.” He heads for the exit before any of them can say another word.

 

+

 

The rain has stopped by the next day. It’s as if the clouds unravelled with every drop spilled, until nothing remained but clear, blue sky. Enjolras is in a considerably better mood because of it.

He figures he’ll need to be in the best mood possible, if he’s ever going to work up the nerve to do what Marius suggested he do. And he’ll need a lot of time to do that; Enjolras can talk circles around anyone, but for some reason, this particular person leaves him at a loss for words.

Because this _particular_ person has a way of actually talking over Enjolras, of stealing the attention away from him, and then keeping it. Enjolras could be commanding an entire room for a good half hour, and then in less than ten seconds this _particular_ person can have everyone snatched away from him.

It’s just… Grantaire is so _annoying_ , so unbearably brooding and overwhelming. He can command a room, too, but whenever he does Enjolras gets the acute sense that he just wants to rile them up, drive them causelessly to an unknown edge. He talks with no purpose except to distract from Enjolras’s.

And that’s why he’s been sitting outside of the Musain for almost fifteen minutes. The cool light of the setting sun hits him just right in his seat on the sidewalk. It’s a Thursday evening, so the cafe won’t be crowded, but he knows most of his friends are in there. Most of his friends and Grantaire.

If he goes inside, Marius and Eponine and Cosette are going to bother him. They’ll bother him until he works up the nerve to ask Grantaire for a word in private. Then he’ll either chicken out and not say anything, or he’ll spit the question into the open and Grantaire will answer.

Grantaire will inevitably say no, after laughing in his face for a good thirty seconds.

Enjolras groans and cradles his head in his hands. He’s so stupid. This whole situation is stupid. All of it. Everything but the wedding and Emmaline and Felix and their undying, unconditional love is stupid. He can’t believe that this is his life.

He’s about to get up and leave, just go home instead of brave the Musain, when a shadow falls over him. He risks a glance up and sees Cosette.

“What are you doing?” Her hands are on her hips. She’s frowning.

“Uhm.” Enjolras looks away. His cheeks are burning. “I’m enjoying the sunlight.”

“You liar.” She grabs his arm and pulls. It does nothing to move him, but he goes anyway to humor her. “You’re hiding.”

“No,” he protests. It’s weak; there’s no conviction in his words.

“Come on.” She starts tugging him inside. “You’re going to come and socialize. You’re going to talk to us. You’re going to have a drink. And then you’re going to ask Grantaire to be your fake boyfriend for the next couple of months.”

She hauls him across the whole cafe, into the corner where everyone’s seated. She seats him next to Combeferre, across from Grantaire, and then she goes to Jehan’s side at one of the tables. No one stalls the conversation except for quick “hello”s. Enjolras is extremely grateful.

He orders a beer. Combeferre drags him into the conversation; he goes willingly, happy to avoid looking at Grantaire. His palms are sweating and he drinks half of his beer just to try and relax.

If anyone notices the state he’s worked himself into, no one says anything. Life continues as usual, as if Enjolras isn’t about to do the stupidest thing in his life.

Maybe that’s an exaggeration. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because Eponine flashes him an annoyed look from over her shoulder, Cosette nods in Grantaire’s direction while wiggling her eyebrows, and Marius not-so-discreetly coughs “coward” into his arm.

That last one stops everyone in their tracks.

“What was that?” Bossuet asks.

“Uhm,” Marius says, “Nothing?”

Enjolras thumps his head on the table. He can’t believe he’s friends with him.

“What’s going on?” Combeferre pokes Enjolras’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s being a coward,” Eponine tells them. Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and bites down a groan. This is getting ridiculous.

“About what?” asks Jehan. Oh, God. No one can keep anything from Jehan. He’s screwed. His secret is out. He’ll have to cancel the wedding. Emmaline and Felix will have to manage without him and his imaginary date.

“He needs a fake boyfriend,” Cosette explains.

“For Emmaline’s wedding,” adds Marius.

“Guys,” Enjolras says hoarsely. He still refuses to lift his head. There’s a very interesting stain on the table, and he’s decided it looks like a bird. “This isn’t necessary.”

“Emmaline is getting married?” Grantaire asks suddenly. “I didn’t know about this. Why didn’t I know about this?”

The stain is forgotten. Enjolras lifts his head a little bit. Grantaire is staring at him, curious. Everyone else is quiet. The rest of the Musain rages on around them.

“Well,” Enjolras says slowly. “I found out yesterday, and you weren’t here.”

“What’s with the fake boyfriend thing?” Joly points a pretzel stick at him from across the booth. “You didn’t mention that yesterday.”

Enjolras winces. This was a bad idea. “I may have told Emmaline that I had a boyfriend to bring to the wedding.”

A moment of quiet.

“But you don’t,” Grantaire points out, finally. He’s fighting a smirk, Enjolras can tell. He hates him.

“No,” he grits out. “I don’t.”

“So you need a fake one?” Grantaire presses.

“Apparently.” Enjolras clenches his jaw. Their friends watch silently, obviously waiting for something.

“And you thought this was a good plan?” The asshole is definitely smirking, now. He’s also swishing his beer bottle around absently, the way he does when he’s thinking. Enjolras hates that he knows that.

“It wasn’t my plan.” Enjolras sits up all the way. His heart is pounding. No one else has tried to say anything and he wants someone to speak up and start a new conversation.

Grantaire raises one eyebrow. “Well, do you have any potential candidates?”

“That’s not really your business,” Enjolras growls.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“I said—”

“I think,” Combeferre says loudly, leaning forward in his seat and smacking the table between Grantaire and Enjolras. They both jump and look away from each other. Enjolras is grateful for the distraction. “I _think_ you two need to go outside and talk this out like real, sexually frustrated adults.”

Never mind. Combeferre is a terrible person and Enjolras is ending his friendship with him effective immediately.

“You want us to _what_?” Enjolras yelps. His voice is annoyingly strained. He’s also blushing, and judging by the smirks on everyone’s faces, they noticed.

“I think he’s right,” Grantaire says solemnly. He takes a long drink of his beer and then adds, “When’s the wedding? I can clear my schedule.”

Enjolras fixes his shocked stare on him. His mouth is open and he’s sure he looks like a stupid fish, but the table is once again utterly silent.

Grantaire stares back, daring him to argue. His eyes are dark and his hair is a mess, like always, and that obnoxious smirk hasn’t left since he started talking. Enjolras wants to say no, wants to get up and leave and give himself a week to work up the nerve to tell Emmaline he lied. He wants to pretend that this never happened and that his friends are actually nice people.

He wants a lot of things, right now, but none of them more than making his baby sister happy. And if that means taking on a fake boyfriend, then so be it. If that fake boyfriend just so happens to be Grantaire, then…

He’ll survive.

Probably.

Enjolras stands abruptly. Everyone keeps watching him. His eyes stay on Grantaire’s. “June fifteenth,” he says. “Be on your best behavior.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves the Musain. He’s pretty sure Grantaire’s smirk has melted into a grin, but he’s too irritated to be certain.

 

+

 

Grantaire is late to his and Enjolras’s meeting with Emmaline and Felix. They’re back at the cafe from before, but this time it’s bustling with people on their lunch breaks. It’s bright and the chatter swarms them, sunlight and warm breezes coming in through the open door. May is going to be a gentle month, this year.

Enjolras is getting anxious. Grantaire was supposed to meet them here ten minutes ago, but he hasn’t even sent a text. Emmaline and Felix haven’t really noticed; they’re telling him about their trip to Costa Rica the year before. He’s only half listening.

 _I knew this was a bad idea_ , he thinks angrily. _When he can’t even be bothered to show up on time. God, I’m so stupid._

“Is he being held up?” Emmaline asks, when the story is finished. Grantaire is pushing twenty minutes, now.

“Yeah, let me text him.” Enjolras is seething. Emmaline looks concerned, and he hates it. He types out “ _where????????_ ” furiously, and hits send a little harsher than might be necessary.

He’s almost surprised when a reply comes seconds later.

“ _i’m on my way, 2 mins_ ”.

“He’ll be here soon,” he tells Emmaline. He tries to smile. “Where were you thinking of having the wedding?”

And then she goes off on a tangent about churches and chapels and how Felix’s family is religious but they don’t want a huge Catholic wedding. She talks about renting a ballroom with gardens out back, or having an outdoor ceremony, and Enjolras kind of gets lost in her enthusiasm.

It almost pains him; Emmaline is twenty four, and he’s twenty seven, so they’ve had more than enough time to come to terms with their own adulthood. But he hasn’t been able to accept that his baby sister doesn’t need him the way she once did. She’s all grown up, with her own job, her own house, her own life. And soon, her own family.

He remembers when they were kids, when they would go exploring together and it was his job to keep her safe, to get them both home for dinner. He helped her with boy trouble in middle school, and then when he was a sophomore she helped him with boy trouble. In her first year in high school, his senior year, he walked her to all of her classes for the first week, and made sure she always had somewhere to sit at lunch. After he’d graduated she would send him care packages at college, and they’d Skype every once in a while to catch up.

Then when Emmaline turned seventeen, their parents died, and it seemed like every older brother instinct Enjolras had evaporated. He was completely blindsided by grief, and it was all he could do just to keep himself going.

Emmaline was the one to comfort Enjolras, when he needed it, and less than a month after the funeral he left. He left his baby sister to her life without their parents, without him, and he didn’t come back until after he graduated, after she graduated and started college.

It’s been four years since Enjolras came stumbling back into her life, and ever since then he promised to never leave her like that again. Now he feels like he’ll have to.

Maybe it won’t hurt as much, this time. Because he knows she’ll be happy, and she’ll be okay. He doesn’t need to keep her safe like he once did.

Emmaline suddenly stops talking. Her eyes are locked on something over Enjolras’s shoulder and her jaw is slowly dropping. She looks confused.

Enjolras turns. Grantaire is hurrying over to them, breathless, ruffled, smiling sheepishly. Enjolras sighs in relief.

“Finally,” he starts to say. “I was worried—”

“I know, babe, sorry I’m so late,” Grantaire interrupts. He runs his hand through Enjolras’s hair, casual as anything, and leans down to peck him on the mouth. Enjolras is stunned into silence. “I got held up at work, one of the clients was terrified of the needle, it took forever.” He strokes Enjolras’s cheekbone for a split second before turning to Emmaline. “Hey, Em,” he says brightly.

“Grantaire!” She laughs, disbelieving. Enjolras is still in shock. “It’s so good to see you again!” She stands up and opens her arms for a hug. “I had no idea you and Enj were…” She laughs again when he hugs her.

“Y-yeah,” Enjolras stutters. His brain is finally coming back to him. Slowly. “We wanted to keep it lowkey for a little while.” He has no idea how he’s even forming sentences. His lips are tingling. It’s really annoying.

“I’ll be honest,” Emmaline holds Grantaire at arm’s length when they stop hugging, “I was waiting for this day.”

Grantaire laughs. It sounds so _natural_ , while Enjolras feels like he just got smacked. “Yeah, uh, so was I.” Grantaire fucking blushes and looks away shyly. “But enough about us, let me see this ring and this fiance of yours!”

The conversation spins away, Emmaline returning to her seat and Grantaire squishing in close to Enjolras. Felix and Grantaire shake hands and Emmaline proudly displays the ring and Grantaire asks about venues and she goes off on the same rambling explanation she’d given Enjolras not five minutes before.

And Enjolras is still _really fucking lost_ at how easily this man, this man that always seemed to hate him and everything he stood for, fell into the role of loving boyfriend so goddamn easily. He just doesn’t understand. He had no idea Grantaire could act so well.

He manages to join the conversation. It moves from the wedding to how Emmaline and Felix met (at a bar, and then again at a library, and apparently a third time at a museum before they went on their first date), to how Felix proposed, to how long Grantaire and Enjolras have been together (Grantaire starts to talk but Enjolras is quick to say “six months, half of that pretty casually” before they can conflict), and then back to the wedding.

“Obviously Enj is walking me down the aisle,” Emmaline says, “but we were kind of hoping you’d be willing to be part of the ceremony, too.” She flashes a winning smile at Grantaire. “Family is family, after all.”

That’s like a punch to the gut. Emmaline truly believes this lie, wholeheartedly, and Enjolras feels like a shitty brother for doing it in the first place. He glances at Grantaire, wondering how he’ll respond.

Apparently, with perfect ease. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says bashfully. “We haven’t even been together for very long, I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“Oh please.” Felix waves the words away with a smile. “She’s got a bridesmaid, a maid of honor, and a brother. I have one best man. I could to with another groomsman on my side.”

“He feels outnumbered.” Emmaline winks at Enjolras. He tries to smile back.

“Only if you’re sure,” Grantaire replies.

“Of course!” Felix assures him.

“In fact, the boys are going for their suit fitting next week.” Emmaline fishes out her phone and scrolls through it for a moment. Enjolras takes that moment to flash Grantaire a look.

“What?” he mouths.

Enjolras just shakes his head.

Emmaline perks up again. “Yeah, next Monday, five o’clock. You two should go with them, how’s that sound?” She looks so hopeful. Enjolras knows he’ll never win against her.

He and Grantaire look at each other and pretend to consider. “Alright,” Enjolras concedes, “We’ll see you then.”

She squeals excitedly. Felix grins. “It’s the little shop on the corner of Sixth and Carriage, a couple blocks over.” She rises from the booth. “It was wonderful to see you both, but we really need to be going.”

They all follow suit and give departing hugs and well wishes, leaving some cash on the table to cover the bill, and then file out of the cafe, setting off in opposite directions.

Grantaire hooks his arm around Enjolras’s waist until they turn a corner, and then it’s like they have a matching magnetic charge, because as soon as Emmaline can’t see they repel away from each other.

“Thanks,” Enjolras coughs awkwardly. His office is only a couple of blocks away. Grantaire’s tattoo parlor is a little beyond that. “For, you know. Playing along.”

“Of course.” Grantaire sounds genuine. That’s new. Enjolras wonders what else he never knew about this man. “Anything for little sisters, right?” He’s smiling.

Enjolras can’t help but smile back.

 

+

 

Courfeyrac is cooking spaghetti and meatballs when Enjolras comes into his and Combeferre’s apartment that night. He doesn’t bother knocking, just walks in and yells a greeting before collapsing on the couch and groaning into Ferre’s shoulder.

“What happened?” Ferre asks, not looking away from the TV. He does pet Enjolras’s hair, though. That’s nice.

“We met with Emmaline and Felix,” he groans. His stomach growls when he catches a whiff of Courfeyrac’s cooking.

“Did it go horribly wrong? Did she realize you two were faking?”

“No.” He slides further down until his face is smushed against Ferre’s knee. “She bought it. It went perfectly.”

“Then why are you whining?”

He pauses. Why _is_ he whining? Everything went better than he’d thought it would; Grantaire played the part perfectly, Enjolras didn’t do or say anything horribly stupid, their PDA wasn’t overwhelming, and he’s pretty sure they passed off as a couple.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. He’s blushing.

Ferre snickers. He tugs on Enjolras’s hair. “Did it go _too_ well? Are you suddenly realizing your undying love for R? Are you going to propose at Emma’s wedding?”

“Oh fuck off!” Enjolras wails. He sits up and drops his head into his hands. “It was just… weird, I guess.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” He struggles to find the right words. “Grantaire was just… He did all of it really easily, I guess? Like it all came naturally to him.”

Ferre doesn’t say anything. Enjolras peeks up from his hands and sees that he’s staring at something behind Enjolras. He turns; Courfeyrac is standing in the kitchen doorway, with the same dumbstruck look on his face.

“What?” Enjolras pushes.

“Nothing.” Courfeyrac shakes himself and goes back into the kitchen. “Come get your food.”

Ferre stands up quickly, like he’s eager for the escape from the conversation. Enjolras watches, frowning. “Are you guys not telling me something?” he asks, wary.

“Nope,” they chime back.

He doesn’t believe them, but he’s hungry and emotionally exhausted. He doesn’t have to see Grantaire again until the suit fitting, and he intends to use the next four days to mentally prepare himself.

He’s going to need it.

 

+

 

Clouds blanket the city again, this time patchy and dark, but allowing pieces of blue sky and sunshine in some places. Rain falls in a gentle shower, the drops small and sweet, making everything damp. The weather doesn’t make Enjolras as sad or irritated as he thought it would. In fact, he’s rather happy, today.

He and Grantaire meet up at a Starbucks a block from the tailor they’re meeting Felix and his friend at. Enjolras gets to the Starbucks first. He orders himself a drink, and after a moment’s deliberation, gets Grantaire a double chocolate chip frappuccino. He’s seen Grantaire consume Starbucks exactly once in all the years he’s known him, and this is the drink it had been. He doesn’t know why he remembers.

Grantaire arrives on time. He sits across from Enjolras at the little table outside, pulling his beanie off and running a hand through his already messy, and slightly damp, hair. It’s stopped raining.

“Alright, Apollo?” he asks nonchalantly.

Enjolras frowns at him. “Excuse me?”

Grantaire grins. He actually looks quite nice when he smiles. It’s a pleasant change from the dark, brooding look he usually adopts. “You’re sitting in the sun, all golden and God-like, I figured it was appropriate.”

“Oh.” Enjolras sips harshly at his green tea lemonade. “I’m fine, I guess. Had an interview with a local politician about an hour ago.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire picks up the untouched frappuccino and examines it. “How mad did he make you?”

“ _She_ was actually a very lovely person,” Enjolras sniffs. “She had some quality things to say on upcoming education reforms and some notable criticisms for the police force. I enjoyed talking with her.”

“That’s wonderful.” He’s being sarcastic. Nothing new, there. “Did you order this for me?” He asks suddenly. He points the straw of his drink at Enjolras.

Enjolras wonders if he got the wrong one. “Yeah. Is it bad? I could get a different one for you.”

“No, no,” Grantaire assures him. “It’s the only thing I get, here. Thanks.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles around the straw.

Enjolras clears his throat. “How’re things in the tattoo parlor?” he asks stiffly.

The other man raises an eyebrow at him. He’s about to get defensive when Grantaire says, “We really need to work on your conversation skills.”

“I can talk to people!” he says, indignant. “I talk to people for a living!”

Grantaire shakes his head. “But you can’t talk to your boyfriend like he’s your boyfriend. You’re treating this like a conversation with one of your clients, E. You’re supposed to _be in love with me_ , remember?”

“We’re supposed to be in love?”

Grantaire looks like Enjolras just smacked him. They’re both silent for a moment. The city moves on around them, people yelling and talking, cars honking, the general rush of city life.

And it had been a real question, on Enjolras’s part. They haven’t actually talked about the parameters of this “relationship” yet, so it’s no wonder that they’ve finally hit a disagreement. He just didn’t think it’d be something like this.

“Well I mean,” Grantaire stutters. He’s flustered and doesn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes. “I kind of assumed. Uh. Sorry.” He shoves the beanie back on his head. “Should we go to the shop?”

“We have half an hour until the appointment,” Enjolras says, just as awkwardly. “You should… You should tell me what you meant about the conversation thing.”

“Oh.” Grantaire slowly relaxes back into his seat. “Well, I. I just meant that you need to open up more, I guess. You don’t have to sound so formal, and. Well, pet names wouldn’t hurt.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Pet names?”

Grantaire smirks. “You know, like ‘Apollo’ or ‘E’ or ‘babe’ or ‘sweet-ass’.”

He tries not to laugh. “You are _not_ calling me ‘sweet-ass’ in front of my baby sister.”

“Alright, I’ll save that one for the bedroom.”

They stiffen again, the words ringing in their ears, but Enjolras coughs and says, “Okay. How was your day, R?” He tries to sound as kind as possible.

It must work because Grantaire positively _beams_. “That’s a good one. And it was okay. I did a few pieces in full color, one whole sleeve that took three hours. Pretty good day.”

Enjolras nods amicably. “That’s good, good.” He scrambles for something else to say. The awkwardness is tangible. “And, uh, your other artwork? The paintings?” He’s suddenly glad that Joly never shuts up about Grantaire’s latest work, because now he’s got a whole arsenal of talking material.

Except, Grantaire looks stunned. His eyes are wide and his mouth is parted, and he’s staring at Enjolras like he grew three more heads.

“Grantaire?” he asks, worried.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head and snaps his mouth shut. “I just wasn’t… Sorry. The painting is fine, I’ve got a collection of landscapes going right now.” He looks down at the table and scratches his nose roughly. “You’re welcome to stop by and see them, if you want.”

Enjolras finds himself smiling. His chest is blooming with unexpected warmth. “That’d be nice,” he says gently.

Grantaire glances up at him and smiles back.

 

+

 

Felix and his friend are already at the shop by the time Enjolras and Grantaire get there. Felix introduces them to Mathieu, a tall man with warm brown eyes and the friendliest smile Enjolras has ever seen, and then the four of them are whisked into fitting rooms to be measured.

The whole process is rather boring and arduous. Enjolras kind of tunes most of it out, allowing his limbs to be moved and measured and then moved again, eyes locked on his own image in the mirror.

Felix tells them all what he and Emmaline were thinking for cuts.

“She doesn’t want us in tuxedos,” he says. The tailor nods along, narrow face pinched while he listens. Enjolras hears Grantaire stifling a laugh at the man’s expression. “Something slim and fitting, formal, obviously, and… God, there was something else she said…”

“Red accents,” Mathieu adds. “She wants a lot of red.”

The tailor keeps nodding. “I’ll see what I can do.” He scurries away, his resemblance to a rat remarkable, and Grantaire snickers again. Enjolras flashes him a stern look, but can’t help his own laughter bubbling up.

When the man comes back he fits Felix first. The other three men lounge on the couch in the lobby, sipping the wine they’d been offered. Enjolras and Grantaire are sure to sit close together, leaning on each other, and Enjolras finds that the more time passes the more relaxed he is. It’s getting easier.

Felix comes out wearing a coal-black three piece, the undershirt stark white, the pocket square and tie blood red. He’s even wearing shiny black shoes, too, and he’d smoothed his hair back with some water.

He looks great.

“Emmaline’s going to love it,” Enjolras promises. Mathieu takes a couple of pictures, while Grantaire wolf-whistles and whoops loudly.

Mathieu goes in for his fitting, leaving Felix on the couch with Enjolras and Grantaire. They talk about nonsensical things: their jobs, their college experiences, how wonderful the wedding will be, how stressful it will be, whether Felix and Emmaline want children.

Finally it’s Enjolras’s turn. He leaves his empty wine glass on the table and follows the tailor. He knows Grantaire is watching him; he can feel eyes on him as he goes.

The door shuts behind him. He hears, while he’s shrugging out of his shirt, Felix ask, “You guys are pretty happy together, huh?”

He stops and strains to hear Grantaire’s answer. It’s chuckled and sounds shy. “Yeah, we are. To be honest, I never thought I had a chance. But, hey! Look at me now.”

The words don’t sound forced at all. Enjolras wants to know how he does that so easily, and how he can learn to do it, too.

The tailor pins the pants and the waistcoat in a total of forty places, the jacket in sixteen, and then he gives Enjolras a pair of shoes, the tie, and the pocket square. He does the last parts himself and then steps out of the fitting room to show off.

Felix and Mathieu nod appreciatively and voice their approval. Enjolras looks to Grantaire and the air is knocked from his lungs.

Grantaire eyes him up and down three times, each time more hungry looking than the last. The edge of the wine glass is pressed to his bottom lip, absently, like he’s forgotten it’s there, and his eyes are dark. He’s smirking.

Enjolras squirms. “You’re up, R,” he says. His voice is hoarse.

“Got it.”

Neither one of them move. Grantaire stares him down, still smirking around that damn wine glass. Enjolras finally looks away. He goes back into the room to get out of the suit, and when he comes back out Grantaire is gone.

Mathieu and Felix both laugh loudly at him. “I thought he was going to jump you right then and there!” Felix teases.

Enjolras laughs with them, unsettled. “We have more self-control than that,” he promises. His cheeks are burning. He grabs at his wine glass, refilled, and empties half of it in one go.

Grantaire comes out of the fitting room hardly ten minutes later. Enjolras is in the middle of retelling the story of his and Combeferre’s first arrest in their junior year of high school, and he’s just getting to the good part when his eyes land on Grantaire.

The words fizzle out in his throat.

Grantaire smirks at him and tugs on the tie a little. “What do you think?” he asks. He ruffles his hair.

Enjolras swallows thickly. “Great,” he forces out. And he’s not lying; the suit fits perfectly, jacket hugging his shoulders, trimming his waist, pants clinging to his thighs and probably his ass. The red is fantastic against his dark hair and paler skin, contrasting nicely with everything about him.

“I think you broke him,” Felix laughs.

Grantaire laughs with him. “One thing I’m good at.” He winks at Enjolras and kisses the air in his general direction, then spins off and back into the fitting room. Enjolras learns that he was right; Grantaire’s ass does look great.

Mathieu jostles Enjolras’s arm. He blinks, realizing he’d been staring after Grantaire.

“Huh?” He sounds dumbstruck, even to himself. How embarrassing.

The other men smirk at him. “Your story,” Mathieu prompts. “You never finished it.”

“Oh.” Enjolras licks his lips. He takes another gulp of wine. It’s starting to get to him, adding to the flush of his cheeks, making his tongue more loose and allowing words to come more freely. “Sorry, I… What part was I at?”

Felix roars with laughter and Enjolras realizes he’s kind of fucked.

 

+

 

Apparently Grantaire has a horrible allergy to flower pollen.

The only reason Enjolras knows this is because he and Grantaire are spending their Saturday afternoon with Emmaline and her maid of honor Adrianne at a florist’s shop. In theory, they’re there to offer their opinions on centerpieces and bouquets and lapel pins, but really they’re just standing around, sniffing flowers, touching strange looking trees, and trying not be bored.

And then Grantaire sneezes loudly, all over a lovely collection of petunias, and Enjolras gives him a concerned look. The sneeze had been violent. Grantaire looks surprised by the force of it.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire sniffs. “Yeah.”

Emmaline calls them over to a tray of tiny, lacy looking white flowers, clustered like snowflakes on long, delicate stems. Enjolras actually thinks they’re quite nice.

“What do you think?” his sister asks. “As a filler for the bridesmaid bouquets?”

Enjolras carefully plucks one of the stems free from the bunch and smells it. It’s sweet and gentle. “What is it?” he asks.

“Baby’s breath,” says the florist, an elderly woman. “Very soft and romantic.”

He nods approvingly, even though he doesn’t really know what’s going on. “What do you think, R?” He turns to holds the flowers to Grantaire’s nose.

Grantaire is about to say something, but his whole face screws up and he sneezes again, violently, turning his head into his elbow and stepping back a little from the force of it.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks again. Emmaline and Adrianne are giggling behind him. He hands the baby’s breath back and touches Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Fine, fine.” His voice is thick. He blinks rapidly and Enjolras can see how red his eyes are. It looks like his nose is running, too. They’ve been in the shop for a good twenty minutes now, and it seems like the pollen is finally getting to him.

“Are you allergic to something here?” Enjolras asks. He rubs Grantaire’s shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. Grantaire looks like he could use some comfort, right now.

“I think—” He sneezes again, and then groans. “Apparently everything.”

Enjolras bites back a laugh. It’s kind of funny. “Do you want to step outside?”

Grantaire groans again and ducks his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. When Emmaline “aw”s behind them he knows the gesture is for show. “Yeah,” Grantaire tells him.

“You two can go ahead and leave,” Emmaline laughs sweetly. She tells the florist, “I’ll do baby’s breath and pink peonies in the bridesmaid bouquets, and more baby’s breath, some red roses, and some fern greenery in mine. Big red rose centerpieces with wildflowers and pink peonies in the middle. Red rose lapel pin for Felix, white roses for Grantaire and Mathieu, and a white peonie for Enjolras.”

Grantaire and Enjolras stare at her. Enjolras consciously shuts his mouth when she’s done talking.

“Did you just decide this?” Grantaire asks. He looks like he’s about to sneeze again.

Adrianne grins. “We’ve had the flowers picked out for a while. We just wanted to see what you guys thought, but since you’re no help, we fell back on the original plan.”

Grantaire fixes a disbelieving look on Enjolras. “We’ve been tricked.” He sounds horrified.

“Completely betrayed,” Enjolras adds. He looks to Emmaline. “Do you actually need us for the food tasting, or was that just a ruse to get us to spend time with you, as well?”

Emmaline waves him away. “Go away. Get dinner together, go see a movie, I don’t know. Felix was hoping you’d take some of the planning burden from his shoulders.”

“I hate to let him down,” Grantaire says solemnly, “but this shop is literally killing me. I am dying. We must go.” He blows a kiss in Emmaline and Adrianne’s general direction before grabbing Enjolras’s hand and dragging him from the shop.

The streets are sunlit and bustling. Grantaire doesn’t let go and Enjolras doesn’t protest, not until they’ve crossed the street and the contact is lost. He almost reaches out and takes Grantaire’s hand again, but stops himself with sharp, silent words.

“I suppose now we could actually do something we want to do,” Grantaire says after a couple of minutes. He already sounds better, now that they’re away from so many plants and flowers and allergens. Enjolras finds he was genuinely worried for the guy.

“Yeah?” he replies. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Grantaire kicks at a piece of trash on the sidewalk. He won’t meet Enjolras’s eyes. “Did you still want to see some of my paintings?”

They’re stopped at a crosswalk. Enjolras is grateful for the pause, because he wouldn’t be able to look away from Grantaire if he tried. His heart is thumping wildly and his hands suddenly are clammy.

“Really?” he presses. “You’d show me?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire smirks at him, shyness evaporating like it was never there in the first place. “You are my boyfriend.”

The words are literally  _dripping_ with sarcasm, but Enjolras’s breath still stutters in his chest. The same way it does whenever Grantaire kisses him in front of Emmaline or calls him “babe” in front of her, or “Apollo” or “E” even when it’s just the two of them and their friends. He’s beginning to think he has a respiratory condition, if his lungs keep giving up on him like that.

 “Okay,” he concedes. The light changes and they start to cross. “Lead the way.”

 

+

 

Enjolras realizes with stunning clarity, halfway to Grantaire’s house, that he’s never actually _been_ there. Although he’s not all that surprised to find that it’s a studio apartment, one giant room with gorgeous windows and lighting. The kitchen is really just a stove, a fridge, and a bar cluttered with papers and plates and empty bottles of beer. A queen sized mattress is on the floor in the far corner, pushed against one of the huge windows, with blankets and pillows are scattered all over. There’s an old dresser nearby. A threadbare couch sits in the middle of the studio, facing the windows, and an old coffee table is in front of it.

Everywhere else in the apartment is covered in art. Finished canvases hang on the walls, pinned to the windows, lay flat on the wood floor, clipped to string stretched from wall to wall. Unfinished pieces sit on easels, at least six of them throughout the room. Paint palettes and brushes and cups of murky water clutter the coffee table and the floor surrounding the easels. Sketchbooks of various sizes are littered in every corner of the apartment.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything when they get inside. Neither does Enjolras. He walks in slowly, slightly awestruck, and admires the view outside the windows. He carefully sidesteps all the art until he’s standing right in front of the glass.

“This is amazing,” he says.

“Thanks.” Grantaire comes to stand next to him. “It took me a couple of years to save up for it, but I’m glad I did.”

They’re looking out over the city. He can’t see much, but slivers of the river can be made out in between the buildings and streets. They’re facing east; the apartment must be flooded with light when the sun rises. Enjolras mentions it offhandedly and Grantaire nods.

“I have a few pieces of the skyline when the sun’s rising,” he tells Enjolras. “I sold a couple at an art show, but there’s still one around here…” He turns away to find it, and Enjolras follows.

He’s ashamed to say that he’s never seen any of Grantaire’s real work. He’s seen some of the tattoos he’s done for Combeferre and Bossuet and Joly, and sometimes Grantaire will doodle on a napkin at the Musain (more often than not it’s a caricature of Enjolras, but… the talent is still evident), but none of that compares to the sheer volume of beauty that fills his workspace.

Enjolras is dumbstruck. There are so many bright colors and striking imagery; families in a park, fields of flowers, a stormy sky, Grantaire’s own apartment, cats lounging on windowsills, cafe fronts in the middle of rush hour, women in pretty dresses and men bowing to kiss their hands. Some of the paintings are hyper-realistic, some impressionist, some just splatters of paint on white canvas, some meticulously drawn straight lines and nothing more.

What catches Enjolras’s eye more than anything else, however, is a handful of paintings near Grantaire’s bed. They’re all lined up against the wall, in a neat row, and they take Enjolras’s breath away.

Cosette bathed in sunlight, her hair falling around her face in golden curtains. Marius and Eponine sitting at opposite ends of a couch, obviously in the middle of a footsie battle for the remote. Courfeyrac and Combeferre huddled together in the corner booth at the Musain, their mouths curled into soft smiles and their eyes full of love. Joly and Bossuet lounging on the grass in a park, Joly with a book over his face and Bossuet flipping Grantaire off. Jehan bundled up in a parka and scarf and hat and mittens, so detailed that Enjolras can see the snowflakes painted onto his eyelashes and the small dimples in his cheeks from his grin.

They’re all snapshots of life among their group, so careful and loved and painstakingly created. Enjolras can’t look away.

“Oh.” Grantaire is next to him, again. He’s holding a canvas, but Enjolras can’t see what it is. He doesn’t really want to, not when he can count the freckles on Cosette’s face and hear the laughter from Marius while he kicks Eponine. “These ones…” Grantaire clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ve had these ones for a while now. I don’t have the heart to sell them.”

Enjolras stares at him. “They’re amazing,” he says. He looks back. Jehan seems real enough that Enjolras can practically feel the cold of the snow. “I can’t believe I’ve never seen any of your work.” He’s quite mad at himself, now.

Grantaire shrugs. “Well now you have, so.” He holds out the canvas in his hands. “Here’s the one of the sunrise. I was half asleep and mildly drunk, so the color’s off and I forgot a building there, but—”

“Shut up and let me admire your work,” Enjolras scolds. His heart is pounding in his chest. He’s biting down a smile.

“Alright. You’re the boss.”

The piece is perfect; Enjolras had come to expect nothing less in the fifteen minutes he’s been here. The sky is dark blue and purple all the way to the horizon, where a band of orange and red bleeds upwards, almost to the tops of the shadowed buildings. The only details are the gradient, how naturally the colors blend, how the tiny, silver pinpricks at the very top of the canvas look to be real constellations, not just random spots. Every outline of the buildings is precise and sharp, stark and black on the sunrise.

He can’t bite down his smile anymore.

“How much?” he asks suddenly.

“What?” Grantaire looks alarmed.

“How much to buy it from you?” Enjolras wants so badly to hold as much of this artwork as he can and push it into his blood, take every brushstroke and canvas and graphite marking and paint drop and make it a part of himself. He’s overwhelmed and it’s the best feeling in the world.

He wants to keep it in his heart for as long as possible.

Grantaire is gaping at him. “You can’t buy it,” he says, finally.

Enjolras’s heart plummets. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, ashamed of his own brashiness. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“No.” Grantaire’s face is stony. Enjolras frowns, confused. “You can’t buy it,” Grantaire repeats, “because what kind of boyfriend would I be if I made you buy my artwork?” He’s grinning now, eyes regaining the spark that Enjolras hates so much.

“Really?” he says. “You don’t want me to—?”

“Oh my God Apollo, just take the piece before I charge you three grand and break up with you.” Grantaire laughs and shoves the canvas at Enjolras. “Stop trying to be noble.”

He takes it, awed, and stares at Grantaire. “You’re sure?” he asks again.

“ _Yes_.” Grantaire starts to walk towards the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I have beer, wine, scotch, whiskey, gross tap water, and…” He rummages through the fridge. “Huh. About a dozen Capri Suns. Ooh, and orange juice. Wonder when that got there…”

He keeps listing drinks, absentmindedly rattling through his cabinets, not looking at Enjolras. Which is probably a good thing, because Enjolras is watching him fondly, a smile melting over his face like the sunrise in his hands.

He shakes his head and looks at the painting again. Grantaire’s signature is in the corner, painted in silver so it stands out against the black of the city. Enjolras turns the canvas over and sees what appears to be the title written in sloppy pencil. He can barely make it out.

When he does, he sways on his feet.

“ _Apollo Rising in Red_ ”.

 

+

 

The sunrise painting hangs in his living room, facing the window. Enjolras sets an alarm for early that morning just so he can watch as sunlight slowly climbs the canvas, bringing the art to life. He resists the urge to call Grantaire and tell him about it.

 

+

 

Jehan and Eponine visit that afternoon. Jehan brings some of his famous sugar cookies, and Eponine brings her boxed editions of “The Lord of the Rings”. When they see the painting on Enjolras’s wall they don’t say anything, but he doesn’t miss the way Eponine smirks or Jehan wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“What?” he snaps. He’s standing in the doorway to his kitchen, holding a bowl of popcorn and two Cokes. Jehan doesn’t like pop so he has a glass of water.

“Nothing.” Eponine settles onto the couch, looking innocent. Sort of.

“It’s something,” Enjolras says warily. He doesn’t move.

“Well it certainly isn’t that you and Grantaire have fallen into these acting roles unnaturally easily,” Jehan mumbles. He bites a sugar cookie and avoids Enjolras’s incredulous stare.

“I…” He swallows. His throat is suddenly dry. His brain scrambles to come up with a counter argument, but he honestly can’t think of a single thing. “That’s unreasonable,” he says finally. He sits between them and hits “play” on the remote stiffly. “Completely unreasonable.”

Eponine scoffs next to him. He ignores it.

 

+

 

“What do you think of having the ceremony here, Enj?”

He doesn’t hear the question. Grantaire is whisper-laughing a story to him about his one and only experience in a church, which seems like it’s going to end in a baptism-gone-wrong. He’s near tears, trying not to laugh out loud. They both sound like they’re dying.

“Enjolras?”

“ _—and then the priest looked me in the eye and said ‘God shall punish thee for thy insolence’ and I said ‘I’m not diabetic, I don’t need insulin—_ ”

Enjolras snorts loudly. He’s started to hiccup, too. He bites down on his wrist in an attempt to keep quiet, but Grantaire keeps talking and it’s getting harder and harder to resist the laugh bubbling up in him.

“Enjolras!”

Grantaire finally shuts up. Enjolras snaps his attention over to Emmaline and Felix, where they’re standing at the front of the church, a good ten yards away. Enjolras coughs awkwardly.

“Y-yeah?”

Grantaire snickers next to him. Enjolras elbows him sharply.

“Can you please ignore your boyfriend for two minutes and tell me what you think of this church for the ceremony?” Emmaline raises one eyebrow at him. The resemblance she bears to their mother is striking. “Or are you just so infatuated that you can’t take your eyes from him?”

He’s blushing. His cheeks are burning and so are his ears, and Grantaire is hiding his face in Enjolras’s shoulder. He fights a grin. He loses.

“Sorry, sis. I think it’s a great place, but it’ll feel pretty big, since you’re not inviting many people.”

That seems to hold her over. She goes off on a tangent about how a smaller church might be better, and Felix flashes the other two men a look that clearly says “HELP ME”.

They keep giggling, and Grantaire finishes his story.

 

+

 

One of the best things about working for a newspaper is that his hours are wonderfully flexible. One of the worst things about working for a newspaper is that he has deadlines, and sometimes those deadlines coincide perfectly with important events — like, say, his soon-to-be brother-in-law’s bachelor party — and he ends up choosing job security over said event.

It’s quite unfortunate, really. Grantaire and Mathieu planned the whole thing, so it’s practically guaranteed to be fantastic. They’ll all be numb with alcohol by the end of the night, no doubt, but it’ll be fantastic. Because all of Felix’s friends appear to be in Spain or England, he’d invited Enjolras and Grantaire’s: Bossuet, Joly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Jehan, Montparnasse, Feuilly, Marius, Eponine, and Cosette.

Enjolras is pretty sure Emmaline’s having her bachelorette party tonight, too, but one of the last things he wants to think about is his baby sister getting wasted three nights before she gets married. That’s just too much.

Grantaire had told him that they were all meeting at the Musain at nine o’clock. It’s eight-forty-five and Enjolras still has to crank out a thousand words for an article that’s due the next morning. He knows that if he waits, he’ll never finish it; trying to write when he’s got a raging hangover is really not how he wants to spend his Sunday morning.

He groans and drops his forehead onto the keyboard. He hates this part. The part of his job he truly enjoys is the part where he goes out into the field and talks to people, when he’s in the middle of the action and he’s watching history unfold. _That’s_ what he wishes he could do, all the time.

But reality’s a bitch, and he has to actually sit down and _write_ his pieces, and then edit them, and then make sure his boss likes it, and then find appropriate photos to go with it, and then edit it again, and watch as his hard work is condensed to a couple of glossy pages in a magazine not enough people buy.

He loves his job. Really.

When he finally lifts his head he sees that there’s a line of _f_ s across the page. He sighs and deletes all of it, and then gets back to work.

At eight-fifty-five, Grantaire texts him. He knows it’s Grantaire without looking because his phone makes that really annoying duck noise when Grantaire texts him. The other man had changed it while they were with Emmaline checking out caterers. The boredom had been so great that they just switched phones and screwed around for about fifteen minutes. Grantaire has about fifty of Enjolras’s selfies, and Enjolras is logged into Grantaire’s Tumblr.

Enjolras groans again and leans away from his computer. He grabs his phone and reads the message.

“ _are u still at work????_ ”

He sighs heavily before texting back. “ _yep. I should be there in half an hour, don’t worry._ ” He locks his phone and gets back to work.

A few minutes (and three hundred words closer to his goal) later, another text comes in. He glances at his screen, then away, and then looks back in surprise.

“ _i’m coming to keep u company and make sure u leave before 10. i’ll be there in 5 mins._ ”

“Well okay then,” he says dumbly. He doesn’t really know what else to say. Grantaire is stubborn, and if he wants to keep Enjolras company, then fine. It won’t be much fun anyway.

 

+

 

True to his word, Grantaire arrives at Enjolras’s office hardly five minutes later. The secretary lets him right in, because he and Emmaline have picked Enjolras up for lunch about a dozen times in the last month. The whole office now believes the lie Enjolras orchestrated for his sister. He can’t help but wonder how he didn’t realize that this would take over his life.

He doesn’t look up when Grantaire comes into his office. He keeps typing furiously (only six hundred and forty nine words to go—forty eight, forty seven—) and doesn’t stir when Grantaire comes to stand behind him.

“What are you even writing about?” he asks quietly.

“Police brutality and the injustices they perform on peaceful protestors,” Enjolras says back, deadpan and frowning in concentration.

“Huh. Interesting.” Grantaire wanders away. Enjolras glances at him, and sees that he’s lounging in one of the leather armchairs, sketchbook in one hand and the other rummaging in his bag for a pencil.

“I’ll only be about ten minutes,” Enjolras tells him. He goes back and deletes a sentence, rewrites it. “You didn’t need to come.”

“I figured you could use the company,” Grantaire mumbles back. “And I had to make sure you didn’t lose track of time and show up to the Musain when we’re already halfway across town at a different club entirely.” He flashes Enjolras a quick grin, and he has to agree. That sounds like something he’d do.

“Thanks,” he says finally.

“What’re boyfriends for?”

 

+

 

Twenty minutes later, Felix’s party is just leaving the Musain when Enjolras and Grantaire show up. None of them are drunk, but Bahorel and Bossuet have drinks in their hands and Felix is red-cheeked and grinning, so Enjolras figures they’re all well on their way to wasted. It’ll be a long and arduous path.

He and Grantaire stop inside to give Musichetta Enjolras’s bag. She smiles snidely at them while tucking it behind the bar, with Eponine and Cosette’s purses, keys from all of them, some wallets from a few of the less inhibited guys.

“Felix told me you two were dating,” Musichetta says. The smile is starting to appear evil. Enjolras tries his hardest not blush. “What’s that all about?”

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Emmaline is under the impression that I’m lonely,” he says, “so Grantaire is… helping me to keep her from worrying.”

Musichetta is still grinning. “Okay,” she replies. She doesn’t sound horribly convinced. “I’m sending the limo after you guys at two thirty. Cosette’s going to call and tell me where you are. Don’t die, don’t lose anyone, and please don’t get arrested.”

Grantaire gives her a mock salute as they back up towards the door. “We’ll try our best.”

“What if I say ‘please’?”

“We’ll try even harder.”

She laughs at them, and they join the group outside.

 

+

 

Despite none of them being Felix’s friends of longer than a month, it seems fairly obvious that they’re enveloping him like an old comrade. They jump around from club to club for a couple of hours, downing fruity drinks and tequila shots until the buzz is tangible, fizzing in their blood like a soda can that’s been shaken up.

At the third club, Combeferre and Joly and Bossuet get Felix up and onto the dance floor within seconds. Eponine and Mathieu are quick to follow. Enjolras watches with Jehan and Marius as, one by one, the rest of the group joins them, Courfeyrac with margarita in hand, Cosette with her hair falling out of it’s twisted updo, Grantaire with his eyes on Enjolras.

“Hey!” Jehan stabs Enjolras in the ribs with a tiny plastic sword. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s getting drunk and it’s really funny to whine as loudly as he just did.

“What?” he snaps.

“Go dance with your boyfriend!” Jehan pokes him again.

He whines again. “I don’t have a boyfriend!”

This time Marius pokes him, with a straw. They’re attacking from all angles. He can’t escape. “Felix thinks you do. Go! Shake that ass and make your brother-in- law think you and Grantaire are going to go home and screw each other’s brains out.”

Enjolras gapes at him. Jehan is giggling into his gin and tonic. “When did you become so vulgar?” he whispers, incredulous. He doesn’t even know if Marius can hear him over the awful thumping of the club music.

Apparently not, because he and Jehan just start shoving him out of the booth, pushing and pushing and yelling at him to seduce and be seduced and bunch of other things Enjolras can’t really make out. He manages to snag one more shot of— he doesn’t really know. It’s alcohol. That’s what matters.

He ends up leaning heavily on Courfeyrac and Combeferre. They each take one of his arms and move him to the pulsing beat of the song, grinning and laughing. It’s contagious. He starts dancing on his own, with Eponine, with Marius and Cosette, at one point he’s pretty sure Joly grinds on him, and then—

“HI!” Grantaire yells. His eyes are bright, cheeks flushed and lips plump and red. Enjolras suddenly isn’t dancing. He’s staring. “Enj?” Grantaire waves a hand in his face. “Apollo, where’d you go?”

“Huh?” Enjolras says loudly.

Grantaire giggles. “Hi!” he says again. “Care to join me?” He starts swaying, shimmying his shoulders and then his hips. Enjolras can’t help but laugh at him. “What?” Grantaire grins and takes Enjolras by the elbows. “Come on, Apollo!”

The world is fuzzy around the edges, and his mind is blurry, and the music is pounding in his head, and all of the dancing people around him are stifling, but the one thing he can focus on is Grantaire.

Grantaire’s wild curls and his bright eyes and the curve of his lips and the white flash of his teeth when he grins. Grantaire’s grip on Enjolras’s arms, when his hands slide down and his fingers close over Enjolras’s wrists, moving them together, closer. Grantaire’s breath on Enjolras’s neck and Enjolras’s nose touching Grantaire’s ear and how _close_ they are. Their hips brush up against each other in time with the music. Enjolras gets his hands free of Grantaire’s grip and grabs at his arms, then his sides, and then finally his hips, squeezing and bunching up the fabric of his shirt.

Grantaire laughs into his ear. He doesn’t hear it; there’s a hot rush of air that makes him push closer and grab tighter. He laughs back, breathless, and the sides of their faces are touching, now.

The music is still loud and pulsing. Now Enjolras feels it more than he hears it, feels it in the way Grantaire moves against him, the way his fingers dig into his back rhythmically, how his head bows onto Enjolras’s shoulder and then tips back until their noses brush. He feels it in his own heartbeat, the drag of his hands on Grantaire’s skin, his breath washing over Grantaire’s neck and then his lips.

Everything is burning and the high from the alcohol has become the high from Grantaire and Enjolras never thought he’d be here, like this, but now he doesn’t ever want to stop.

And now Grantaire tips his head back, bumps his nose to Enjolras’s. They both laugh, the noise lost to the music, and Enjolras closes his eyes. He feels Grantaire’s smile against his and Grantaire’s hands in his hair and—

A hand on his shoulder shakes him free of Grantaire. He spins away suddenly, startled from the bubble he’d been lost in.

Combeferre is smirking at him. “We’re going to another club!” he yells. “Stop sucking on each other’s faces and let’s go!”

He looks back to Grantaire. He’s blushing, too, but grinning, so Enjolras grabs him by the arm and follows Combeferre out of the club. His lips are tingling. He’ll blame it on the alcohol.

 

+

 

Felix had been wearing a giant sash that says “GROOM TO BE”, but at some point during the night it ended up on Eponine. Somehow this had earned her a plethora of free alcohol, and before anyone really knows what’s happening, none of them need to pay for their drinks. Eponine bats her drunken eyelashes at bartenders, Felix on her arm, grinning and swaying dangerously, and they’re handed trays of tequila, vodka, jello shots, martinis, margaritas that only Courf and Marius drink. Normally Enjolras would be worried about how much alcohol is disappearing into himself and his friends, but there are fifteen of them, so it can’t be that bad. The ratio seems balanced.

He thinks it’s almost two thirty when a pretty girl in a red dress tries to flirt with Felix. They all watch from the booth they’ve taken over as he bumbles his way through turning her down, blushing and laughing nervously and almost falling off of his barstool. He and the girl are both obnoxiously drunk, as well as everyone in their party, so they all titter loudly at his failure to articulate that he’s taken; and his failure to sit upright.

Finally Eponine gets up and swaggers over to the girl. She leans in, whispers something, and the girl seems to understand. Her sloppy grin slips, until Eponine seems to whisper something else. Then the two women pull away, look at each other, and kiss furiously.

Felix stumbles back to the booth amidst cheers and whoops for Eponine. Enjolras hooks his arm over Felix’s neck when he collapses next to him.

“Thanks!” he says loudly.

Felix looks at him, drunkenly bewildered. “Wha’?”

“For not cheatin’ on my lil’ sister.” Enjolras hiccups. He hears Grantaire giggle next to him. “‘S real nice of ya, bein’ faithful. An’ loyal.” Another hiccup. Grantaire giggles again, sliding down in the seat. Enjolras blindly reaches back to whack him, misses, and hits Joly, who’s on the other side.

“Oi!” Joly whines. “What’d ya do tha’ for?”  

Enjolras ignores him and pats Felix’s cheek. “Yer a keeper.”

Grantaire positively _cackles_. “Yer a keeper, Harry,” he says, and then dissolves into giggles.

“Be nice to me,” Enjolras whines. He abandons Felix, who looks pleasantly proud with himself, and hits Grantaire on the arm. “Yer my boyfriend, you have to be _nice_ to me.”

Grantaire stops laughing. Now he’s the one that’s hiccuping. It’s kind of cute, Enjolras realizes distantly. “Sorry, E.” Grantaire reaches up and cups the back of his neck. “Want me to make it up to you?” He’s smirking. And leaning in.

Enjolras licks his lips and keeps his eyes on Grantaire’s. They’re glinting in the dim light of whatever club they’re at, sparkling with something Enjolras knows he used to hate. “Yeah,” he says, dumbly, when Grantaire is less than a breath away. “Sure.”

The kiss is sloppy, as is to be expected from a couple of drunks. Somehow Enjolras still finds it to be the most amazing thing he’s ever experienced. His alcohol-addled brain scrambles to keep track of Grantaire’s lips, his hands—one on Enjolras’s neck, the other high on his thigh—the way their noses keep bumping, how soft and curly Grantaire’s hair is under his own fingers. Grantaire tastes like the last round of jello shots and Enjolras really wants more.

He pushes closer, grabs at Grantaire’s hair and his jaw. Grantaire leans back into the booth, and a little bit on Joly, just so he can bring Enjolras almost onto his lap. Enjolras is faintly aware of Joly complaining and shoving at them, but then Grantaire bites on his bottom lip and the world is gone.

It’s kind of like when they were dancing. The music of the club is pulsing around them, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s only really capable of feeling; the hot touch of Grantaire, the dull buzz of too many shots and drinks, the exhilarating press of their mouths and their bodies.

He pulls away for a second, kissing Grantaire’s bottom lip and then backing away completely. Grantaire whines, eyes still closed, and leans in to chase him. Enjolras laughs breathlessly. He smooths some dark, curly hair from Grantaire’s forehead, touches his cheek and his jaw, then presses his thumb to Grantaire’s lower lip.

Grantaire’s eyes open. He looks up at Enjolras, waiting, breath puffing over Enjolras’s fingers. His hands tighten on Enjolras’s waist.

They smile at each other, and Enjolras ducks back in to keep kissing him. It’s open mouthed and hot and Grantaire keeps making noises into his mouth, little sounds that could be imagined, but probably aren’t. He’s shaking under Enjolras, breathing in shuddery gasps when they pull apart, heartbeat jumping under Enjolras’s fingers where they brush his pulsepoint.

They kiss and they kiss and Enjolras keeps rhythmically tugging Grantaire’s hair, moving his head slightly, and Grantaire keeps nipping at Enjolras’s lip, and they break away for barely a second before going back at it again, and he smells like sweat and alcohol and Enjolras’s cologne and he feels like everything Enjolras never knew he wanted and he’s willing to give up anything just to stay here and kiss Grantaire until they melt into the booth and their friends disappear.

The next time they break apart to breathe, just for a second, a hand is suddenly thrust between their mouths. Enjolras stops, confused, and looks away from Grantaire.

Joly is smirking at him. “Come on,” he says loudly, and very sloppily. He gently whacks Enjolras on his spit-slick mouth. “We’re leaving!”

A pout takes over his face before he can fight it. He’s pretty sure he hears Grantaire whine, and then he’s pressing his face into the crook of Enjolras’s neck. Enjolras absently pets his hair and turns to look at the rest of their friends.

His head is spinning a little, and he feels kind of sick now that he thinks about it, but he can still see that everyone is standing, ready to go. Granted, only Cosette is standing on her own; everyone else is leaning heavily on someone. Eponine is still making out with the mystery girl. Enjolras thinks dimly that the group has filled its Gay Quota for the evening.

“Alright,” he slurs. He turns back and gently pushes Grantaire away. “Le’s go.” They stumble out of the booth, clinging to each other for support more than anything, and Enjolras nearly falls on his face. Grantaire tries to catch him, but they both fall.

Bahorel and Bossuet haul them up, nearly falling over themselves, and Cosette herds all of them outside and onto the curb. Jehan and Felix and Courfeyrac are singing some pop song at obnoxious decibels. Enjolras hides his face in Grantaire’s neck to get away from it. His eyes shut and he feels himself sagging against him, drowsiness suddenly taking over.

“Hey,” Grantaire mumbles. He pats Enjolras on the back. “Stop that. ‘M tired too, we’ll fall o’er again.”

Enjolras whines and burrows closer. He holds more of his own weight, though, and Grantaire doesn’t say anything more.

 

+

 

The limo arrives to pick them up, right on schedule, and all sixteen (Eponine brings her girl) of them pile inside. Felix and Jehan and Courf are still singing, but everyone shuts them up pretty easily. They’re not as young as they once were, and more than half of them get knocked on their asses ten minutes into the drive.

Enjolras leans on Combeferre, who’s leaning on Courf. Grantaire lays down across the seat (and Bossuet) with his head in Enjolras’s lap. Enjolras strokes through his hair absently, his own eyes drifting shut, Grantaire’s hand heavy on his knee.

 

+

 

Enjolras wakes up slowly and to a pounding headache. It pulses behind his eyes and at his temples. He groans loudly and curls up under his blankets, wrapping one arm around the top of his head and the other around his stomach.

His mouth tastes foul; like things he really does not want to name. He doesn’t have the energy to get up and get water, though, so he stays in his bed and moans loudly, hoping that’ll be enough to banish the pain. It’s his usual method of dealing with hangovers.

He’s been at it for a good ten minutes, it seems, when something moves behind him. He stiffens, going silent instantly.

“Stop,” a gruff voice whispers, “ _making noise_.”

Enjolras can’t tell who it is. Bits and pieces of the night before come back to him, images of him and Grantaire dancing together, kissing on the dance floor, at a bar, in a booth, hanging all over each other on a sidewalk, Grantaire falling asleep on him in a limo…

He rolls over as quickly as his headache allows. The body next to him, in his bed, is covered by the blankets and facing away. Enjolras reaches out slowly, licking away the awful taste from his mouth as he does, and grabs the edge of the blanket.

Combeferre groans loudly and yanks the blanket back up. “Stop it,” he whines.

Enjolras frowns, confused, and pulls it away again. “Ferre?”

“Yeah,” he snaps, grabbing it back. “Who did you think it was?”

Enjolras blinks. Combeferre has done this before; crashed in Enjolras’s bed after a long night out. Enjolras’s apartment is a lot closer to the clubs and bars of the city than Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s is. He should be used to this.

And he should be grateful that it _isn’t_ Grantaire, because that would be awkward. Wouldn’t it?

“Where’s Courf?” he asks. His head is still pounding.

“He was here when we went to bed,” Combeferre mumbles. “Your bed is big and he’s tiny. Fell asleep right on top of me.”

“Ew.” Enjolras rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. If he concentrates beyond his headache, he can smell bacon. Courf is an angel.

He takes a couple of minutes to gather his willpower before finally asking, “Where’s Grantaire?”

Combeferre is quiet for so long that Enjolras thinks he went back to sleep. Then he hears him roll over, and when he looks, Ferre is smirking.

“Did you think he’d be here?” he teases.

Enjolras glares at him. “No, I was just wondering.” He looks back at the ceiling.

“You two were all over each other last night.”

“We were drunk.”

“He’s always drunk and you don’t randomly make out with people under any kind of influence. That’s not an excuse.”

“Shut up, Ferre.”

“Alright.” Enjolras can practically hear him smirking. Dammit. His friends are doing too much smirking, these days, it really needs to stop. “He went back to Joly’s place. Cosette got them in the door.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want Ferre to have the satisfaction of knowing that Enjolras is relieved.

About what, he isn’t sure.

 

+

 

June fourteenth is what Emmaline has been calling “The Day That Will Decide the Fate of My Marriage”. It’s the rehearsal dinner, and Enjolras isn’t all that surprised to learn that it involves a hell of a lot more than just dinner. Emmaline booked a small chapel for the ceremony itself, and apparently the whole wedding party is to “practice” walking down the aisle and standing around. Then they’ll go to the restaurant and the families can meet, and Mathieu and Adrianne can practice their speeches, and Enjolras can embarrass his baby sister.

The whole ordeal will take only four hours.

Enjolras and Grantaire take a cab to the chapel together. Emmaline and Felix are already there with the priest, and Mathieu arrives within seconds of Enjolras and Grantaire. Emmaline tells them they’re waiting on Adrianne and Nadine, the other bridesmaid.

Grantaire plops himself down in a pew and sags into it, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Enjolras turns away from him and tries to strike up a conversation with Mathieu, but Emmaline keeps flashing him accusing looks.

He finally snaps. “What?” he asks, interrupting Mathieu mid-sentence.

She glares at him and comes closer. “What’s wrong with your boyfriend?” she asks lowly. She sounds almost mad at him.

Enjolras. “I imagine he’s just tired,” he says. “I think he was up late working on a painting.” He eyes her suspiciously. “You’re not mad at him for being tired, are you?”

Her eyes narrow. “You haven’t said a word to him since you got here, and you’ve yet to be less than three feet closer to him.” She leans in, like a dog scenting its prey. Enjolras can’t help but lean away. “What’s wrong?”

He blinks dumbly at her. Mathieu melts away, presumably to talk to Felix, and Enjolras feels abandoned. “Nothing’s wrong,” he tells her. The words are paper thin and she sees right through them.

“Bullshit.”

He groans. “Look, Em, if you want to spend the night before your wedding worrying about your brother’s relationship issues, then be my guest. If you want to enjoy yourself and prepare for the best day of your life, then I’m here to support you one hundred percent.” He touches his knuckles to her jaw, like he used to when they were kids. “But we’re grown-ups. We can handle this. On our own.”

She glares at him for a second longer, and then seemingly gives up. “Fine.” She nudges him on the jaw, too, a small recognition of his affection, and sulks off to hide under Felix’s arm. Enjolras allows himself to be endeared for a moment before he turns towards Grantaire.

Emmaline had been right. They haven’t _really_ talked since… Well, since before the bachelor party, when Grantaire had come to keep him company. After everything that happened that night, Enjolras couldn’t find it in himself to face Grantaire. Not without his stomach doing stupid things and his heartbeat echoing in his ears and his throat going dry while his palms got all sweaty.

To be fair, Grantaire didn’t exactly put effort into talking, either. For all Enjolras knows, he holed himself up completely in his studio, only coming out on Monday for a couple of appointments at the tattoo parlor. He didn’t call or text or even relay a message through one of their friends.

They both seemed to trying their hardest to pretend that Saturday night never happened. Enjolras is waiting for Grantaire to tell him that he won’t be coming to the wedding, either, that he’s done lying for Enjolras and pretending for Enjolras.

He sighs heavily and leans on a pew. Grantaire is across from him, and looking, for all the world, like he’s passed out. Somehow Enjolras knows better. He knows that Grantaire is awake, and he knows that he should probably go over and make sure things between them are okay, and he knows that Emmaline will kill him if he doesn’t, wedding be damned. Jehan can walk her down the aisle.

The doors to the chapel swing open. Adrianne strolls in, wearing a pretty sundress and a big smile. Another woman is at her side, wearing tiny shorts and a baggy tshirt. She makes it look stylish, though, and Enjolras can’t deny that her smile is, also, rather breathtaking.

Adrianne pecks Enjolras on the cheek when she passes, and pats Grantaire on the head, and then she and Nadine erupt into squeals and envelop Emmaline in a hug.

“You’re getting married!”

“Tomorrow!”

“I’m so excited!”

“We can’t wait!”

It goes on like that for a while. Enjolras watches Grantaire crack an eye and glance at the giggling trio, and a small smile breaks the careful blankness of his face. Then his gaze slides over to Enjolras and the smile melts away.

Enjolras sighs. Now or never.

He makes his way to where Grantaire is sitting and slowly lowers himself to the pew. They don’t look at each other. The silence between them holds for a good thirty seconds.

“So,” Enjolras says, finally. And then he instantly feels stupid, because he can make conversation with anybody about anything, and here he is, sitting next to his fake boyfriend, trying to address fake issues in their fake relationship, and all he can say is “so”? What the hell is wrong with him?

Grantaire snorts. “So.”

Enjolras groans. “Look, about Saturday night,” he starts.

“I know.” Grantaire cuts him off. “You were drunk, you didn’t mean to, you want to move on and pretend that nothing happened. I get it.” He flashes Enjolras a tight, bitter-looking smile. “You don’t need to explain anything.”

And then… And then he gets up, and edges past Enjolras, out of the pew and up to the front of the chapel where everyone else is discussing procession order. Enjolras watches, dumbstruck, as he goes, and wonders why he can’t even argue with what Grantaire had said.

He scratches the back of his neck and tries to ask himself why it bothers him so much that Grantaire is so willing to move on. He tries to ask himself why he suddenly doesn’t want to.

But he knows he won’t like the answers if he keeps asking himself those kinds of questions, so he shuts down that part of his brain and rises to join the others.

 

+

 

It’s decided that Mathieu and Adrianne will walk down the aisle first, then Grantaire and Nadine, and then Emmaline and Enjolras. They practice it about a dozen times to the music, Emmaline snapping at them all the while to keep their pacing on time with it.

Enjolras keeps looking to Grantaire, ready to make a quiet joke at Emmaline’s expense, but every time Grantaire is focusing very hard on his shoes, or his fingernails, or something Nadine is saying. Enjolras tries to ignore the cold feeling in his stomach.

 

+

 

 

 

 

 

The dinner is supposed to be at six o’clock, downtown at one of the fanciest Italian restaurants Emmaline could get her hands on. They finish at the chapel at five thirty, which leaves them just enough time to get there.

Enjolras calls a cab for himself and Grantaire, and they stand awkwardly outside the church, alone and not speaking.

Enjolras breaks the silence. “Emmaline was worried about you,” he says softly. “She asked me before we got started if you were okay.” It’s not exactly a lie. Not if Enjolras is only slightly manipulating words to get the answers he wants. “Are you?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah. I was just up late last night working on a piece.”

“That’s what I told her.”

They’re quiet for a few more seconds. A couple of cars drive by, but they’re away from the city so it isn’t as busy. Uninterrupted sunlight beats down on them, not as harsh as it could be.

He speaks up again, against his better judgement. “What was the piece you were working on?”

Grantaire glances at him from the corner of his eye. Enjolras can see the cab pulling up, but doesn’t move. He wants an answer, so desperately that he’s willing to stand here all evening and pry the words, one by one, from Grantaire until they form the whole picture.

“Another sunrise,” Grantaire says quietly.

He slides into the cab, and it takes Enjolras a second to follow.

 

+

 

Felix’s parents are some of the cheeriest people Enjolras has ever met. They wrap Emmaline up in a hug as soon as they see her, Mrs. Deneau gushing about how gorgeous Emmaline is, Mr. Deneau loudly approving of their taste in restaurants.

When Emmaline introduces them to Enjolras, he steels himself for the inevitable interrogation.

“Enjolras, what a lovely young man!” Mrs. Deneau, short and cheery and quite motherly, kisses him on the cheek and crushes him in a hug. “You and Emmaline look so alike, my my!”

Enjolras smiles graciously; his people skills only vanish in the presence of Grantaire. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Deneau. I can see now where Felix gets his good looks."

The couple laughs and Mr. Deneau asks the dreaded question: “And who do you belong to, young man? Surely you have a girl here somewhere, Emma wouldn’t let you attend her special day all alone, would she?”

Enjolras fights hard to keep his smile from slipping. Grantaire is talking to Enjolras and Emmaline’s aunt and uncle across the table, no doubt introducing himself as the loving spouse. Enjolras feels a sudden and overwhelming need to have him by his side.

“Actually, I do have someone.” He turns halfway towards Grantaire and gestures to him. “Grantaire, he’s uh. He’s my boyfriend.” The words come easily, now, after over a month of passing his lips. The smile is only forced because he doesn’t know how to gauge Mr. and Mrs. Deneau’s reactions.

Mrs. Deneau looks to her husband. He looks back, both of them blank faced, and when it seems that a whole conversation has passed between them without ever reaching Enjolras’s ears, they both explode into radiant smiles.

“Well call the boy over, if he’s part of the family I want to meet him!” Mrs. Deneau exclaims.

Her husband agrees, “If your taste is anything like Emmaline’s then we’ll just have to love him, eh Marie?”

Enjolras deflates with relief. “Of course, one moment.” He slips away from them, heart pounding, and makes his way to the other side of the table to stand by Grantaire.

He casually wraps his arm around Grantaire’s waist, and waits for him to finish telling Enjolras’s aunt what sounds like the story of how they started dating. Enjolras tunes in instantly, ravenously curious to know what Grantaire is imagining up.

“So, I mean, it took us ages and ages to get there, but he finally got the nerve to ask me out, and several failed dates later, we decided that a relationship was worth a shot. And, well. It’s been seven months.” He glances at Enjolras. “Here we are.” He’s smiling. Honest to God _smiling_ , the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows flashes of his teeth and makes Enjolras’s heart do funny things behind his ribs. He subconsciously tightens his arm around Grantaire’s waist.

“You two are almost as cute as Emmaline and Felix,” Aunt Cheri teases. She tugs on Uncle Ferdinand’s arm. “Aren’t they just the cutest, Nandy? Are you paying attention to our nephew and how cute he is? Nandy!” Cheri dissolves into giggles over her husband and Enjolras takes that as his cue.

“Come with me,” he says quietly.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him. His hand comes to rest on Enjolras’s where it hooks over his hip. “Are you kidnapping me?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Enjolras steers them to where Mr. and Mrs. Deneau are taking their seats for the dinner, to the right of where Felix has just sat down.

Mrs. Deneau fawns over Grantaire the minute she sees him, exclaiming at the lack of color in his cheeks and how lovely his hair is, and the fine artistry of his tattoos. When Grantaire tells her he’s an artist Enjolras is sure that she’s about to faint from excitement.

“Sit by me during dinner and tell me all about your work,” she begs. “Henri never wants to go to museums with me, it’ll be so nice to have another person to talk to, even for one evening.”

Grantaire looks to Enjolras when she asks him to stay with her. Enjolras will be sitting on the other side of the table, by Emmaline, so he’s obviously worried about them being separated. It won’t help their “couple” persona.

“Stay here,” he says, smiling. “You’re getting along. I’d hate to ruin a potential friendship.”

Mrs. Deneau squeals with delight. Grantaire grins and ducks in quickly to kiss Enjolras on the cheek. Enjolras grabs his neck when he pulls away and kisses his mouth, determined to at least attempt to make up for the last couple of days.

Grantaire kisses him back and Enjolras wants to melt into him. But then he pulls away and takes his seat, and Enjolras remembers that he has his own place to be. He hurries to Emmaline’s side, and then the families sit.

On Felix’s side are his parents, his grandmother, two cousins Enjolras can’t remember being introduced to, and Mathieu. Emmaline has Enjolras, their aunt and uncle, Adrianne, and Nadine. Grantaire was meant to sit by Enjolras, but the change in seating arrangements put him right next to Mrs. Deneau and across from Uncle Ferdinand. Enjolras almost feels bad; Ferdinand is big and imposing and gruff, and maintaining eye contact with him can be difficult, because you get the accute sense that he’s plotting revenge. For what, you have no idea (in reality he’s probably imagining the many ways one could construct a farmhouse, but you wouldn’t guess that from the glint in his eye. Enjolras wonders how Emmaline survived her teenaged years living with him).

Halfway through dinner, right before Emmaline wants the speeches to happen, Aunt Cheri leans over Enjolras to tell her, “Your parents would be so happy, Em. If they could see you now.”

He knows the words are meant to be thoughtful, and he supposes that they sort of are, but the reaction they elicit from Emmaline is more than alarming. The smile vanishes from her face. Her shoulders curl in on themselves and she’s blinking back tears before Enjolras has even processed what Aunt Cheri said.

The silence that falls on the table ripples downward, until everyone is watching Emmaline furiously wipe her eyes, while Felix pets her hair and whispers to her, and Enjolras holds her hand and gulps down his own cries.

“Oh no,” Aunt Cheri whispers, horrified. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Emmaline chokes out. She’s clutching Enjolras’s hand like a lifeline. His heart is in his throat. He wants everyone to stop staring at his baby sister, because he knows there’s nothing she hates more than people looking at her grief. “I’m fine, it’s okay.” She wipes tears from her cheeks, but more follow.

“Honey,” Felix says gently, “do you want to go outside?”

Enjolras is very glad that Emmaline is choosing to marry him.

“No,” she says resolutely. She takes a deep, shaking breath. Enjolras reaches out and thumbs more tears away. His own eyes are stinging. “No, I’m okay.”

Felix shares a concerned look with Enjolras. The whole table must be reflecting it, but Enjolras doesn’t want to see them. Doesn’t want to see their pity.

So he stands up, still holding his little sister’s hand, his fingers damp with her tears, and starts talking.

“I remember when Emma was only six years old.” His voice is shaky. He powers through. “She went into Mama’s closet and put on her best white summer dress. It was too big and fell off of her shoulders, but she loved it and wore it all day. Mama said she was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and I don’t think Emma’s ever smiled bigger than she did that day.

“Four years later I came home from a friend’s house and Emma was having a pretend wedding in our backyard. She made me pretend to be our father and walk her down the aisle. I handed her off to a stuffed animal wearing a ribbon for a bowtie, and I don’t think I’ve seen a brighter smile on Emma’s face.” He stops to clear his throat. Emma smiles up at him, fragile and sweet and slightly teary. He keeps going, turning to face the table.

“When she was fifteen she had her first boyfriend. I overheard her talking with her friends one night, saying that she wanted to marry the boy and grow old with him and have a huge wedding where Papa got to walk her down the aisle. I remember thinking that if she married that dirtbag I was going to estrange myself from the family.” He manages a smile when he says it, and everyone chuckles softly. Emmaline looks considerably happier, and the words are coming to him more easily.

“When she was seventeen, and I was twenty, our parents died.” He stops and takes a deep breath. Emmaline squeezes his hand. “The first thing I thought was ‘who is going to walk my baby sister down the aisle?’ ‘Who is going to help her find the perfect dress?’ ‘Who is going to give her fiance a stern talking to?’ ‘Who is going to pester her for grandbabies and who will toast her long and happy marriage?’ All our parents ever wanted for Emma was a life of love and happiness. When they died, I was so worried that she would have to go through life alone, that she would need me and I wouldn’t be there for her.” He swallows thickly. Everyone is watching him, hanging onto his every word, but he’s only really aware of Emmaline holding onto him like she used to when they were kids; like Enjolras would keep them safe, and lead them home.

“But now, I’m not worried. Emmaline has proven over and over again that she knows what she’s doing.” Everyone chuckles again. He smiles at Emmaline fondly. “She’s shown the world that she is strong enough for anything that it gives her, that she can do just fine with nothing but her own two feet to stand on. My baby sister is one of the strongest and kindest and bravest people I know, and that is why I am serious when I say that Felix Deneau is a very special man.” More laughter. The mood is lightening and Felix is blushing and Enjolras feels rather accomplished.

“Because my sister never settles. Not for anything. She accepts nothing but the best, and if she’s choosing to spend the rest of her life with something, you better believe that it’s the best thing she could get her hands on.” He grins at Felix, who’s hiding in Emmaline’s shoulder. “Not that my opinion matters very much, but I wholeheartedly, one hundred percent approve of Emmaline’s decision. Her whole life she’s imagined the perfect wedding and the perfect life and the perfect man, and while there may be couple pieces missing from the puzzle, she got one thing right.”

Enjolras picks up his wine glass with a shaking hand. The rest of the table follows suit. He meets Emmaline’s eyes, smiles so gently that he can feel himself breaking from the inside out. “So it is with the utmost sincerity and love when I say: good luck to you both, and if Felix breaks your heart, I will kill him.”

Laughter ripples down the table. Grantaire yells “Cheers!” and they all clink glasses and Enjolras can’t stop smiling. He kisses Emmaline’s cheek and ruffles Felix’s hair and when he catches Grantaire’s eye, they both stop.

Grantaire smiles at him. His eyes sparkle in the way Enjolras used to hate.

He smiles back and wonders if there was something about him that Grantaire has abandoned his hatred for.

 

+

 

Gold shatters the horizon and Enjolras is awake to see it, to see how sunlight bursts upwards and lights up the city. He can’t resist calling Grantaire. He holds the phone to his ear and watches red streak the sky, dissolving nighttime and stardust and scattering the darkness of the planet.

Grantaire answers. He sounds as awake as Enjolras.

“Are you watching it?” Enjolras asks.

“Yeah,” Grantaire whispers. “I’m watching it, Apollo.”

The sun rises and Enjolras refuses to hang up and the steady breathing of Grantaire brings the waking world to its knees.

 

+

 

On the day Emmaline and Felix are due to be married the sky is clear. It’s thick and blue and the patch of gold in the middle makes everything pleasantly warm. Enjolras doesn’t have much experience with weddings, but he is certain that it can’t get more perfect than this.

The ceremony starts at three thirty in the chapel, but Emmaline has demanded that the wedding party arrive at noon. _Noon_. Enjolras has no idea how she plans on keeping them occupied for three and a half hours, but he’s more scared of his sister’s wrath than being bored, so he doesn’t argue.

There are a couple of rooms in the back of the chapel that have been fashioned into suites. Emmaline, Adrianne, and Nadine are set up in the bigger room, where Aunt Cheri and the hired makeup and hair stylists are presumably helping them prepare.

Felix, Mathieu, Enjolras, and Grantaire have the smaller room. Uncle Ferdinand joins them, and he brings a cooler of beer, and suddenly the afternoon doesn’t seem so bad.

They lounge around the room in their slacks and button ups (Emmaline had practically made them swear blood oaths that they wouldn’t wear their jackets or vests or ties or lapel pins until it was absolutely necessary), sipping beer and laughing and trying to ease Felix’s nerves. Grantaire does most of that; he’s got so many funny stories about his younger, alcohol-filled days, and stories of botched tattoos he’s had to fix, and stories about his short time in art school, that Enjolras is sure they’ll be entertained right up until Emmaline starts making her way down the aisle.

That’s when everyone will start crying and things will get serious.

“Okay, so, I’m standing on the stage, monkey on the stool next to me, violin in pieces on the ground, my professor in tears, and all I can think is ‘I really want a fucking cheeseburger’.”

Felix and Mathieu cackle loudly and fall all over each other on the other couch. Uncle Ferdinand chuckles quietly from the corner. Enjolras snickers into his hand next to Grantaire, because he knows that this story is only half true.

There was no monkey.

“So what did your professor do?” Mathieu gasps out. He looks like he’s going to start crying.

Grantaire settles back on the couch, shoulder brushing Enjolras’s. He looks smug. “Gave me an A,” he says.

“No fucking way!” Felix loses it again. Mathieu really does start crying, Enjolras thinks; either that or his laugh has evolved into some awful, dying seagull noise.

He leans in and whispers to Grantaire, “You liar.”

Grantaire grins at him. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

Enjolras can’t deny him that.

Felix and Mathieu are begging for another story when the door to the room bursts open and bangs against the wall. They all jump. Grantaire yells dramatically, “This is the house of the _Lord_ and you should _respect_ it!”

No one laughs, though, because Adrianne is standing in the doorway. Her hair is half curled, it looks like only one of her eyes has eyelashes, and she’s wearing nothing but a tiny, thin robe over her underwear. Her eyes are wild and frantic.

“We have a problem.”

The whole room launches into panic mode. Enjolras shoots up off the couch, Grantaire following instantly. Mathieu yells, “Good Christ, what the hell happened?” Uncle Ferdinand drops his beer in the trash, slams the lid of the cooler shut, and leaves the room at a quick speed walk. Enjolras thinks he’s probably going to make sure nothing is on fire or collapsing. He’s good like that.

And Felix… Poor Felix is still sitting, head in his hands and trying to steady his breathing. Mathieu sits with him and helps him breathe, quietly coaxing him into it like one would a woman in labor. Enjolras doesn’t have it in himself to find it funny.

Adrianne is shaking. “The minister is sick,” she says, “and he can’t make it, and _apparently_ there is no one else that can replace him, and he had the only copy of the ceremony and the speech, and now he’s not going to _be here_ and Emmaline is actually losing her mind and we can’t get her to calm down and she’s ruined her makeup already so we have to start over and—”

Enjolras grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her a little bit. “Hey,” he says firmly, “ _hey_ , Adrianne, calm down, it’s going to be okay.” He doesn’t really believe that, and there’s a surge of panic rising up in him that he fights to push down. “Look, I’ll go talk to Emma, you stay here with R and take a breather, ok? We’ve got some beer in the cooler, have one and just relax.” He looks over his shoulder at Felix, who’s hyperventilating. Mathieu looks just as freaked out. “R, can you help him, too?”

Grantaire nods quickly. “Yeah, of course. Go talk to Em.” He flashes Enjolras a smile and gently steers Adrianna away from him. They sit on the couch and Enjolras leaves just as Grantaire hands her a beer.

 

+

 

He can hear Emmaline shrieking all the way down the hall from her room. He pauses outside the door to collect himself, braced against the inevitable onslaught, and then he opens the door and goes in.

It’s like walking into a battlefield. There are clothes everywhere—he’s relieved to see that none of them are the wedding gown itself, or the bridesmaid dresses—and plastic cups and some makeup brushes litter the floor. When he walks in a flying box of tissues misses his head by an inch.

Emmaline is collapsed in a heap on the floor in the middle of the room, wearing a tank top and shorts, sobbing, yelling about how her wedding is ruined and she’ll never get married and she’ll have to live her life as an old spinster. She’s going to die alone.

Enjolras is simultaneously terrified and sympathetic.

Aunt Cheri sees him and instantly sags in relief. “Enj,” she says desperately. “Help, I don’t know what to do, she won’t stop crying. She’s threatening to shred her dress, Enj, I had to send the stylists out to the car with it to keep it safe!” Her eyes are wild and she looks ready to yank her own hair out.

Enjolras scrambles to comfort her. “It’s okay, I’ve got it from here,” he promises. “You go take a break. We’ll be fine.” Aunt Cheri pecks him on the cheek before scuttling out of the room like the demons of hell are on her tail.

Emmaline lets out another pained shriek and Enjolras wonders if she’s one of those demons.

He carefully makes his way towards her. “Emmaline?” he asks carefully. It’s like approaching a wild animal; one wrong move and you’re dead. “Emma, sweetheart, you have to take a deep breath.”

Emmaline stops wailing. She locks eyes with Enjolras. She takes a deep, shuddering breath that’s punctuated with small sobs. It all comes out in one pained rush of air. She’s sobbing again before Enjolras has time to react.

He swears under his breath and just sits on the floor next to her. She collapses into his arms, shaking incessantly, and he resists the urge to tease her about getting stains on his dress shirt.

Finally, he shushes her enough to get her talking.

“W-we don’t have a m-m-minister,” she gasps. Enjolras wipes tears from her cheeks. “How can we g-get married without a… a minister?”

He cups her face and kisses her forehead. “We’ll figure something out, love, don’t worry. We’ve got—” he looks at his watch. “—two and half hours. That’s plenty of time.”

“What if we don’t?” she wails. He hands her a tissue. She dabs uselessly at the corners of her eyes.

“We will,” he promises forcefully. “We always figure something out.”

She sniffs sadly. “Yeah,” she agrees, begrudgingly. She sniffs again. “Can… Can I see Felix?”

She sounds so distressed that Enjolras almost caves and texts Grantaire to bring Felix in. But he remembers Emmaline making him swear up and down to do everything in his power to keep them from seeing each other pre-wedding, and there is no way in hell he’s going to break that promise. Doing so would result in the kind of anger that takes years to melt away.

“Sorry, Em,” he tells her. “You made me promise.”

She pouts and wipes at her eyes again. Even Enjolras can see that her makeup is shot to hell and back. “Fuck you,” she says weakly. “I hate when you’re a good person.”

Enjolras smiles. “I love you too, Em.” He kisses her cheek. “Now, will you let your bridesmaids back in? And will you let them clean you up and put your makeup on?” He tilts her chin up so their eyes meet. “Because no matter what, you are getting married today, legally and everything. I won’t let anything get in the way of my baby sister and her one true love.”

That makes her smile. Mission accomplished. “Fine,” she concedes. “Send in the entourage.”

 

+

 

At two fifteen, Enjolras nearly crashes headfirst into Grantaire coming down the hallway. They’re both jogging, and they come around the corner, and Enjolras barely manages to turn his body to the side before Grantaire is just inches away from him.

“I just remembered the most fantastic thing in the world!” Grantaire exclaims.

Enjolras looks at him blankly. “Uh?”

Grantaire takes him by the upper arms. “Bossuet is an ordained minister!”

All he gets is a confused frown in response. Enjolras’s brain is fried; he has no idea why that is relevant.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says slowly, trying to convey the point more effectively. “Bossuet can marry Emmaline and Felix. Legally.”

It finally clicks into place. “OH!” He grins. “Grantaire that’s fantastic!” He frowns again after no more than a second. “But would he—”

“I already asked. He said he’ll do it.”

“But the speech—”

“He’s bringing Prouvaire. Our little Jehan can wax poetic practically on command, I think he can write a wedding ceremony in an hour.”

Enjolras can’t fight the laugh bubbling up in him. Neither can Grantaire. It’s infectious and bright and they laugh each other’s happiness into the world, and before Enjolras can think he ducks in and kisses Grantaire on the mouth.

Grantaire keeps laughing and tries to kiss him back around a smile.

“God you’re perfect,” Enjolras breathes. They kiss again, and again, and Grantaire _keeps laughing_ and the perfection of it all bleeds into Enjolras’s veins.

Then he remembers his poor, stressed out sister in the other room, and he yanks away quickly. “Emmaline!” he gasps.

Grantaire makes a face. “I will try not to be horrified,” he mumbles.

“No, you dolt, I have to tell her.”

His face brightens again. “Oh. Oops.”

Enjolras whacks him on the arm. “Go tell Felix, and call Bossuet and Jehan. They need to get here as soon as possible.”

Grantaire salutes him and starts backing down the hallway. “Yes sir.”

They flash each other one last, desperate smile, and then return to Project Save Emmaline’s Wedding.

 

+

 

Emmaline almost starts crying again, when Enjolras tells her about Grantaire’s idea.

“You know what?” she gasps. She grabs Enjolras’s hand. “If you don’t marry him I’m converting to Mormonism and stealing him from you. We’ll be polygamous and I won’t share because you missed your chance.”

Enjolras chuckles and kisses her head. He ignores the political incorrectness, for once. “I don’t doubt you, sis.”

 

+

 

Bossuet and Jehan arrive at the chapel at two forty five, wearing their best suits and their best behaviour. Enjolras is rather impressed.

Jehan goes to talk to Emmaline about the speech, and Bossuet strikes up conversation with Felix and Mathieu and Uncle Ferdinand so easily Enjolras wonders if they’re not all secretly best friends. He whispers this suspicion to Grantaire, who just laughs and shakes his head.

 

+

 

At three fifteen, guests are arriving and being seated. Emmaline is fully dressed and finishing up her “bridal photoshoot”. Enjolras watches from the corner of her room as she poses in her gown, smiling like her world hadn’t almost fallen to pieces just two hours before.

He glances at Grantaire. The other man is watching Emmaline and Adrianne and Nadine and Aunt Cheri wistfully, but he’s not really focusing on them. He looks a thousand miles away.

There was a time when Enjolras could completely ignore that look and all of its connotations and hidden meanings. There was a time when he wouldn’t think twice about Grantaire, or even look twice at him.

Now though, now he wants to know everything Grantaire is thinking. He wants to split Grantaire open at the seams and find out exactly how he works, and then stitch him back together again after learning everything he needed to know. He wants Grantaire to open up and just _talk_ , for once, and say something that has more meaning than being cynical and tearing things down.

He wants to listen to Grantaire build something for himself.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks gently.

Grantaire doesn’t look at him. “My sister,” he replies.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had a sister,” he says.

“I used to.”

Enjolras’s heart twists violently. “I’m sorry, R.”

“She got married, about three years ago. She was twenty one.” Grantaire scratches his nose. “Her husband was great. The wedding was beautiful. She was so happy.”

“What happened?” Enjolras wants to take his hand, but some boundaries should never be tested.

“Nothing.” Grantaire smiles bitterly. “I was a shitty older brother from the moment I turned eighteen. For six years, I didn’t talk to her, or hear from her, and I never even tried to change it. Then one day our parents called and told me she was getting married.” He sighs. His shoulders sag. “I never got an invitation.”

“Grantaire…”

“So I guess,” Grantaire continues, turning suddenly to face Enjolras. He’s smiling, and it’s more genuine. “I want to thank you.”

Enjolras frowns. “For what?”

“For this.” He gestures to where Emmaline is twirling in her dress, her smile brighter than the sunlight filtering through the windows. “For giving me a second chance at being a big brother. For letting me be a part of your family, even if it’s only for a month. For… I don’t know, trusting me.” His eyes are so soft, his whole expression so carefully and overwhelmingly open, that Enjolras’s heart breaks.

“Thank you for letting me,” he manages. He reaches out and touches the back of Grantaire’s hand. “And thank you for telling me about your sister.” From the corner of his eye he can see Emmaline grinning at them. The smile is infectious, and it spreads to his own lips.

Grantaire echoes it. “Stop messing around and kiss me, Apollo.” He says it loud enough for Emmaline to hear. They kiss each other with smiles and laughs and the camera flashing on Emmaline’s command, and he knows that he’s made her happy.

Enjolras will never stop being grateful for that.

 

+

 

At three thirty sharp, the music starts up and Mathieu walks with Adrianne down the aisle. Nadine and Grantaire follow next, exactly like they’re supposed to, and before Enjolras is ready, Emmaline hooks her arm through his, adjusts her skirts and bouquet, and they’re stepping into the aisle.

His heart is in his throat the whole time. He keeps his eyes on Grantaire, trying to anchor himself, to keep himself in the moment in which his baby sister is _getting married_ — a smile half the size of his face feels like it could be blinding anyone he looks at. His breathing is uneven.

They reach Felix. Bossuet grins at Enjolras. The walk went by too quickly, and now Emmaline is letting go of him, and now she’s kissing his cheek and he’s telling her he loves her and she’s wiping a tear from his cheek.

“Thank you, Enj,” she whispers.

“I love you, Em,” he whispers back. He kisses her on the nose, and then she turns to Felix.

He goes to stand by Adrianne, and does his damnedest not to cry.

(It doesn’t work so well.)

 

+

 

Enjolras’s baby sister is married.

Emmaline and Felix are married and they look so happy and so in love and Enjolras is definitely crying.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac catch his eye from the crowd and laugh at him a little. He isn’t offended, mostly because both of their eyes are wet, too. He resists flipping them off. That would ruin a moment or ten.

 

+

 

The reception is in a garden downtown, only ten minutes from the chapel. There’re two large pavilions set up; one for the dinner, and one for the party. The dinner pavilion has a dozen round tables scattered about, each with a big, beautiful centerpiece and little tea candles. The long table at the front of the pavilion is scattered in pink rose petals and candles and tiny silver stars. It’s quite lovely, and Enjolras can see how proud of it all Emmaline is.

He sits to the right of Adrianne, who’s on the right of Emmaline. Mathieu and Nadine are on Felix’s left, leaving Grantaire with Enjolras. Aunt Cheri and Uncle Ferdinand are at a table with the Deneau’s and Marius and Cosette; Enjolras is certain that Emmaline sat the two tamest of his friends near their family for a reason. The rest of them are scattered amongst the reception, making noise and jokes and elevating the atmosphere so much that Enjolras’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

Emmaline’s laugh tinkles out into the crowd every once in a while, and it warms him from the inside out.

Grantaire is quiet next to him, but he can feel how content he is. They keep meeting each other’s gaze every once in a while, over a wine glass or a bite of food or just to smile, because this night went really well and Enjolras never thought his stupid, stupid idea would go this perfectly.

He hates that Marius was right, but he’s also grateful. Pontmercy does have his moments, once in a blue moon.

 

+

 

Dinner and cake and toasts and speeches and jokes are finished before eight o’clock. Adrianne and Mathieu herd everyone to the dancing pavilion while Emmaline and Felix disappear to prepare for their first dance.

The pavilion is spectacular. A huge white canopy covers the whole floor, with thick white drapes and curtains hanging as walls and from the ceiling, making it feel cozy. Golden fairy lights twinkle everywhere, in every corner, every nook and cranny, hanging from every inch of the ceiling. Thick gold ribbons are tied to chairs and tent poles. The DJ’s station is draped in more white fabric and fairy lights. Rose petals are scattered on table tops and the middle of the dance floor. It’s glorious.

The opening chords of Emmaline and Felix’s song start playing. Everyone falls silent, and watches, enraptured, as the couple appears from the darkness. There’s no introduction or preamble, and no one attempts to cheer or clap. It’s pure, the way they glide onto the dance floor, melt into each other, dance together as if it’s all they’ve ever done in their entire lives.

The lyrics and the rhythm of the song and the music and the lights and the sight of his sister so _happy and loved_ makes Enjolras’s chest clench horribly. He reaches out blindly for Grantaire, and breathes easier when their hands link.

 

+

 

Emmaline finds him a few songs later, when the tempo has picked up and everyone is dancing, having the time of their life and soaking up the energy and the love permeating the area.

Enjolras is sitting at the edge of the pavilion, his tie undone, jacket on the chair next to him, sleeves rolled up. Emmaline flops down next to him, face flushed and grinning brightly.

“Alright?” she asks.

He smiles at her. It doesn’t hurt, not anymore. There’s no ache, no longing, no underlying need to protect her. She can protect herself, and Felix, and their future together. Enjolras doesn’t need to do that.

She takes his hand and doesn’t say anything.

He finds himself watching Grantaire. He’s dancing with Joly and Courf and Jehan and Bossuet; God only knows where everyone else is. They’re smiling and laughing and jumping around and singing and Enjolras can’t make himself look away.

He’s known Grantaire for years, but he’s learned more about him in a month than he ever did in that time. He knows Grantaire’s coffee order at Starbucks, and how he likes his coffee literally anywhere else: a lot of cream and one spoonful of sugar. He knows that Grantaire’s favorite movie is _Inception_ , not because of its deep message and artistic themes, but because of Leonardo di Caprio. He knows that Grantaire’s first ever tattoo was a dove because that’s his mother’s favorite bird. He knows that Grantaire paints landscapes when he’s upset and strangers when he’s melancholic and portraits when he’s happy and details when he’s relaxed. He knows Grantaire loves the color red. He knows that he adores cats and even feeds stray ones at the park.

He also knows that Grantaire kisses like he has something to prove, like this kiss right now needs to be the most important thing in the world. He knows that Grantaire’s hands are soft and calloused in places from pencils and paintbrushes. He knows that Grantaire never brushes his hair in the mornings but it’s still nice to run your hand through. He knows that Grantaire will hide his face in Enjolras’s neck if he’s embarrassed, or tired, or drunk, or deliriously happy.

He knows that Grantaire lights up like the sun when he smiles. He knows that his eyes shine with constellations when he laughs. He knows that his every emotion bleeds from him and into his art and the space around him, like his body can’t contain it and the world is scrambling to relieve him of that burden.

He knows Grantaire paints red sunrises and calls Enjolras “Apollo” and tells him secrets and touches the back of his neck like there’s gold in his spine and instead of mining it, he wants to keep it safe.

Enjolras takes a deep breath. Emmaline squeezes his hand.

“I think I love him,” he whispers. He can’t stop watching Grantaire and the happiness that spills from him, spiralling out and touching everything around him.

“I know,” Emmaline says. “I think he loves you, too.”

 

+

 

The last song of the night finally brings Grantaire to Enjolras’s side. He offers his hand, and Enjolras takes it, and they cross to the middle of the dance floor. Grantaire’s hand settles on Enjolras’s shoulder, his on Grantaire’s waist. Their foreheads bump, then their noses, and their quiet laughs collide like a sunrise touching the clouds.

_(Tonight, the light of love is in your eyes…)_

They start moving slowly, their feet shuffling and their bodies swaying more than actual dancing. Other couples are surrounding them, Emmaline and Felix, surely, but everything except for the music is gone.

_(a lasting treasure? or just a moment’s pleasure?)_

“I used to hate you,” Enjolras mumbles.

Grantaire laughs. The sound brushes his mouth and it’s almost like being kissed. “I kind of knew that. And I kind of hated you, too.”

“Kind of?”

_(the night meets the morning star)_

Another laugh. Closer to a kiss. “You were infuriating, but you were hot. I was torn.”

_(I can be sure of)_

“What about now?” Enjolras opens his eyes. Grantaire is already looking at him. “After almost two months of… this?”

_(tell me now, ‘cause I won’t ask again…)_

Grantaire smiles. “I don’t hate you.”

_(will you…)_

Enjolras wonders why he’s Apollo. Grantaire could scorch the world with that smile. “Good,” he says quietly.

_(still love me…)_

They bump together, eclipsing and then moving on, sunsets and sunrises mixing in a kiss that stops them where they stand. Grantaire holds Enjolras’s face like he’s fragile, kisses like he’s made of gold. Enjolras clings to Grantaire’s waist and kisses back as if making up for all the time they didn’t use before Emmaline got engaged.

_(tomorrow.)_

+

 

Enjolras finds a painting of himself in Grantaire’s apartment one afternoon in August. Grantaire is in the kitchen making some sort of pasta, and Enjolras is wandering among the forest of paint and charcoal. He comes to a stop when he sees it.

The canvas isn’t big, but it’s not small enough to be hidden in its place behind the couch. Enjolras picks it up carefully, his throat closing up and his eyes unblinking.

The whole thing is made entirely of oranges and reds and yellows, like Grantaire had painted a sunrise, first, and then sketched Enjolras on top of it, in thick red lines and strokes. Enjolras, who looks to be in the middle of one of his speeches, the kind that makes his heartbeat thunder in his ears and his hands shake with what he needs to say and his whole body feel weightless.

Grantaire painted him with so much more passion than he thought he could have. His eyes are blazing, his gestures wide, his lips red and curled around words Enjolras can’t remember. It doesn’t feel like him, because there is no way he’s this powerful, in real life.

“Oh.”

Enjolras turns to see Grantaire standing behind him, eyes on the painting.

“Oh?” he asks. “R, this is…” He can’t think of anything. He just sort of grins helplessly.

“Yeah, well.” Grantaire steps closer. “I guess it’s alright.” He’s kind of smirking.

“You dick, it’s amazing.” Enjolras can’t take his eyes away. “This isn’t me, this is… like, some Greek hero, or something.”

Grantaire snorts and goes back to the kitchen. “If you really think that isn’t you, then look at the back.”

Enjolras frowns in confusion, but does as Grantaire says. On the back, “ _Apollo Rising in Red_ ” is scribbled in messy pencil.

He drops the painting as carefully as he can and scampers into the kitchen to kiss Grantaire until the stars he’s seeing are imprinted on his boyfriend’s skin.

 

+

**Author's Note:**

> this took me way too long to write. i am so sorry, marcie. so sorry.  
> also, the song that's playing when enjolras and grantaire dance together at the end is "will you still love me tomorrow" by amy winehouse. go listen for a good cry.


End file.
